Murder as a Fine Art Read online

  “What have you found out?”

  “Well, for one thing, Montrose’s blood-alcohol reading was 0.11. If he had been behind the wheel of a car, he would have been charged with impaired driving.”

  “No surprises there.”

  “I’ll get to that in a moment. According to the autopsy, his liver was slightly enlarged and he was forty pounds overweight, but there was no life threatening condition. But with all that extra weight, he would have no chance of surviving a fall like that. Not that anyone would, when you think about it. He suffered a head injury that ultimately would have proved fatal, but what killed him was a broken neck. It was what they call a ‘hangman’s fracture’. It snapped the same four vertebras that a considerate hangman will try to break with his rope. That way, death is mercifully quick.”

  “How interesting,” murmured Laura, not knowing how else to react to this gruesome bit of trivia.

  “A broken neck is consistent with a fatal fall,” the Mountie continued. “If we only had the autopsy results to work with, I think we’d put it down as an accidental death. But before doing the autopsy the medical examiner sent Montrose’s body to Edmonton for a laser scan and that came up with something interesting.”

  “Which you are about to tell me.”

  The policewoman smiled. “I guess I have been stringing out the suspense. The laser revealed signs of slight subcutaneous bruising just above both of Montrose’s ankles.”

  “Are you saying someone reached down, grabbed his legs and flipped him over the railing?” Laura paused, then added thoughtfully, “That would account for the way he landed. Head first, I mean.”

  “We could use you on the Force,” murmured Karen. “Of course, there could be other explanations as to how he got those bruises, but it’s enough to keep the file open. Especially since there’s no doubt about Erika’s death being a homicide. By the way, I expect the detectives from the Calgary detachment will want another statement from you about how you found Montrose’s body.”

  “No problem. Now that we’re talking about two murders, I’ve been trying to think of some connection between Erika and Montrose. All I can think of is that they are both academics and writers who happened to be in the colony at the same time. So far as I know the only person here at the colony who had any previous connection with Montrose was Jeremy Switzer.”

  “I will be talking to Mr. Switzer. For him, push has come to shove.”

  “About his alibi?”

  “Yes. If he’s got one, now is the time to prove it.”

  “It’s possible that Montrose’s death may have nothing to do with the colony,” Laura mused. “The outside doors of Lloyd Hall are never locked so anyone in the whole wide world is free to wander in. A man like Alan Montrose was almost bound to have picked up some enemies in the course of his life. He liked to lord it over people when he had the upper hand. Like the way he was taunting Jeremy that night over the libel action.”

  “We’ll look into Montrose’s background, of course. Starting with the university where he taught.” Unexpectedly, Corporal Lindstrom smiled. “If the university I attended is any example, we’ll uncover any number of possible motives — jealousy, professional rivalry, disgruntled students, you name it.”

  “Roy Hansen,” Laura said suddenly and when Karen looked at her blankly, she explained. “Your mentioning disgruntled students made me think of him. He’s the one who put Jeremy up to writing that article about Montrose having plagiarized his play. Now he’s being sued by Montrose, along with Jeremy. He can’t have been too kindly disposed toward his former professor.”

  Karen wrote his name in her notebook. “Now that we know the professor was murdered, we’ll see if we can get a line on Mr. Hansen.” Closing the notebook, she gazed once more around the studio. “You can say what you like, but I’d rather be painting.”

  The day was spring-like, a promise of what was to come. Laura paused for a moment outside her studio to breathe the air that soughed gently through the pines. A raven flew low overhead, rowing through the air with powerful strokes. Its wings made a whirring sound as if its feathers were made of metal. As her eye followed its flight, Laura saw that the men from the arson squad were still sifting through the remains of the boat studio, collecting samples, scooping up trowels of ash into plastic bags, and carefully labelling each bag. The area was still sealed off, so she took the service road, holding her nose against the blue miasma of diesel fumes as she hurried past idling tractors in the maintenance yard. More than once she had complained to Kevin about the tractors’ engines being left running so close to the colony, but he had said he had no jurisdiction over the engineering department and there was nothing he could do.

  “That smashing looking corporal was around again this afternoon asking questions about Montrose,” said Richard. He and Laura had been for a swim and now were sitting in the lounge, sharing a bottle of wine with Henry Norrington. While Norrington might be contemptuous of Richard’s books, he was, Laura noticed, always happy to accept the drinks that Richard bought. Predictably, Richard didn’t seem to care one way or the other.

  Laura could have told them what the laser scan had turned up, but she had decided not to reveal any information she picked up through working with Karen without the police officer’s permission. It was the safest way to avoid saying something that might jeopardize the investigation. “I don’t think the police are entirely satisfied with the circumstances of Alan’s death,” she said noncommittally.

  “It was an accident,” Norrington pronounced in a voice that brooked no argument. “Alan simply had too much to drink and fell over that criminally low railing.”

  Not wanting to pursue the subject, Laura looked away. Over in a far corner, Isabelle Ross and Marek Dabrowski were sitting by themselves.

  “It looks as though the affair is on again,” Richard remarked, following her glance.

  Laura nodded. “She’s taken her rings off again.”

  The bottle of wine was finished. Norrington, who had consumed most of it, excused himself.

  “You’re amazingly patient with Henry,” Laura said as they watched Norrington’s troll-like figure heading for the door. His malformed hips made him walk with a slightly rolling gait. “Some of the things he says about your writing are completely outrageous.”

  Richard shrugged. “It’s just one man’s opinion. Actually, I like the old guy. And in many ways I admire him. Fate, in the form of genetics, played a cruel trick by inflicting that ungainly body on him. But he does what he can to overcome the handicap with his daily swimming regimen. And he’s used his brilliant mind to turn himself into a celebrity.”

  “You’re very understanding,” murmured Laura, surprised and pleased with Richard’s reply. His usual manner was casual, almost flippant, but there were times when he displayed an acute perceptivity about people. “I will admit, however,” he was saying with a laugh, “that there are times when the way he dumps on my books does get under my skin.”

  “That reminds me. With everything that’s been happening, I keep forgetting to tell you I finished The Blue Agenda. I enjoyed it. It’s a real page turner.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Richard said, and then sat back in his chair with a bemused smile. “I didn’t know you were reading it.”

  “I’ve read all your books except Mission to Mykonos. I just received a second-hand copy of it and I’ll read it as well.”

  “I’m flattered. And a little surprised. In the first place, I don’t know how you managed to get copies of the earlier ones. They’ve been out of print for several years.”

  “I have my sources,” Laura said, hoping to sound mysterious. “I’m quite good at research, you know.” She leaned forward slightly. “When all this is behind us, I could discuss them with you, if you like.”

  “They’re just entertainment,” he said with a slight shrug. “I don’t expect them to be taken seriously.”

  “I realize that. But there are times when they seem ready to br
eak through to another level.” Laura paused as she saw he was frowning. “You needn’t worry that I’m out to change your style, or anything like that. I just thought it might be useful to have some input from an interested third party. But if you don’t want to ...”

  Richard looked uncomfortable. “I’m not sure how I feel about that, to be honest with you. You’re a genuine artist with your own aesthetic. I’m not sure I could ever write at the level you would expect. Or that I would want to, if it comes to that.” He looked at her. “I’m sorry, Laura. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your offer. I do. But ...”

  Laura leaned forward and took his hand in hers. “There’s no need to explain, or apologize. I understand. Consider the subject dropped.”

  chapter eight

  The front-end loader, its scoop filled with sodden ash and charred bits of wood, snorted its way along the path, heading for a waiting dump truck. They were cleaning up the debris that had once been Erika’s studio. Laura knew there would be no painting for her today. She turned her back on the noisy machines with their stinking diesel fumes and retreated back up the path. She still could salvage something from the day that stretched before her by doing what she had intended last Sunday, when she and Richard ended up going to the Hot Springs — look at some art books in the library.

  The Centre’s library had an impressive collection of art books. Laura roamed among the shelves, not looking for anything in particular, waiting for inspiration to strike. She paused as her eye fell on a familiar title, Art and The Law by Milstein. There was a copy of the legal text in her Denver studio; she had purchased it after a New York art dealer had sent her a twenty-page contract, heavily weighted in his favour. The final document that they signed was three pages long and heavily weighted in her favour. As she stared at the textbook, something that had been niggling at the back of her mind suddenly clicked into place. She remembered it because at the time she read it, it had seemed totally wrong. Picking up the text, she seated herself at a table and turned to the chapter on libel.

  There it was. In black and white. The paragraph was short and to the point. “A libel action is extinguished with the death of the plaintiff.” The statement was backed up by a number of judicial decisions, one of which was Drake v. The Sacramento Times, which meant that the legal principle applied in California where Montrose had brought his suit against Jeremy. The paragraph went on to say that a libel action was so personal in nature that the courts had held it should not survive the death of the defamed plaintiff. As it had when she first read it, it struck Laura as not being right somehow. It seemed unfair that a family couldn’t defend a departed member’s honour and reputation. But there it was.

  What an incredible piece of luck for Jeremy! His fortune and self-indulgent lifestyle were safe. If it was luck. This was definitely something that Corporal Lindstrom should know about. She found Karen in her temporary office. She was on the phone, but she waved Laura in through the open doorway.

  “That was Mr. Hamilton letting me know he has checked in to the Banff Springs Hotel,” Karen said as she replaced the receiver.

  “Look at this.” Laura placed the legal text, open at the passage on libel, on the desk in front of Karen.

  “It’s a textbook motive, if you’ll forgive the pun,” Karen said with a low whistle after reading the paragraph.

  “That book is kinda old. We should make sure it’s still the law,” Laura said. “I know. Let’s give Geoff a call. He’s a hot shot Wall Street lawyer and he should know the answer.”

  It turned out Geoff didn’t know the answer. He specialized in securities and SEC work. But he would call one of his partners who did a lot of libel litigation and get right back to them. He did so within five minutes. The passage in the text was a correct statement of the law. He went on to say, maybe to excuse his own lack of knowledge, that it was such an obscure and little known rule that only a specialist in the law of libel would be expected to know about it.

  “Jeremy would have consulted libel lawyers as a result of Montrose’s lawsuit,” Laura pointed out after Karen had hung up.

  “That’s true. But that point might not have come up—Montrose being alive at the time. But if Switzer did know about it beforehand, it gives him a picture perfect motive.”

  “Why don’t you check it out with Jeremy’s lawyer?”

  “Won’t do any good,” replied the corporal with the air of one who has been there. “He’ll just give me a run-around about solicitor-client privilege. Except I guess in the States it would be attorney-client privilege.” Closing the textbook, she said, “I haven’t managed to have my talk with Mr. Switzer since we found out about the bruises on Montrose’s ankles. He’s gone downtown shopping, according to Dr. Norrington who had breakfast with him. You know,” she went on thoughtfully after a slight pause, “I think I’ll have him picked up for questioning. That should attract his attention. If he’s got an alibi, as he claims he has, now’s the time for him to trot it out.”

  Leaving Karen to corral Jeremy, Laura pressed the elevator button in the hall outside the Mountie’s office. The door slid open and she gasped and took an involuntary step back. The cloaked figure inside the elevator wore a black eye-mask and broad brimmed black hat. It took her a moment to realize it was only John Smith in his Lone Ranger costume. He was taping a notice on the elevator’s rear wall. She knew it would be pointless to tell him he shouldn’t be going around scaring people like that. To him, it was all part of the ongoing performance that was his life. She entered the elevator and rode down to the ground floor of the Donald Cameron Hall with him. The crudely printed notice announced that John Smith would be giving a performance in the Walter Phillips Gallery at 8 p.m. on Tuesday, April first.

  “Nice touch that, don’t you think?” said John Smith as they got off. “Having it on April Fool’s day, I mean.” He had a thick sheaf of notices along with a roll of tape and a box of thumbtacks. It was clear that he intended to spread word of his show far and wide.

  “Having the police around asking stupid questions is going to detract from my happening,” he grumbled as he tacked a notice to a bulletin board inside the main entrance. “People won’t be able to concentrate on it.”

  “Maybe everything will be cleared up by then. Let’s see. Today is Thursday, the twentieth. That gives you what? Twelve days. A lot can happen in twelve days.”

  “The way they’re stumbling around, hell will freeze over before they solve it. You’ll be there, of course?”

  “At your performance? I wouldn’t miss it!”

  “There’s one.” Laura pointed to a sheet of cardboard tacked on a telephone pole. She and Richard were on their way back to their respective studios after having lunched together in the dining room. He hadn’t mentioned the good luck kiss Laura had given him the night before he went to Edmonton, but it was obvious his interest was aroused. Now he stopped and read the notice announcing John Smith’s performance. His studio was directly across from the Thom studio that had been assigned to the performance artist, so he couldn’t help but see the comings and goings.

  “That promises to be quite a performance,” he muttered. “He’s enlisted some of the housekeeping staff to help him act out whatever it is he’s got in mind.”

  Laura nodded. It was quite common for young actors, musicians, and artists whose grants had run out, or whose courses were completed, but who wanted to remain at the Centre, to take jobs with the housekeeping department. It was a pool of talent that was often tapped for bit parts in plays, extras in operas, and to augment visiting orchestras.

  “It’ll be interesting to see what he comes up with,” murmured Laura.

  “Not to mention bizarre. His assistants look pretty strange when they come out of that studio.”

  “That’s all we need!” the Centre’s president groaned as he looked up from the poster on his desk.

  “I talked to John Smith and tried to get him to postpone his performance,” said Kevin Lavoie, “but he refused. Said th
at doing it on April Fool’s is an important part of the performance. I suppose we could always force ....” He stopped when he saw Fraser shaking his head.

  “We can’t do that,” said the president. “That would go against everything the Centre stands for. Our role is to foster and encourage art in all its many forms. We’re not censors. I would like to steer Benson and the minister well clear of it, but I’m sure that won’t be possible. Did I tell you that Harvey is going to bring his wife?”

  “No, you haven’t told me. Have you met her?”

  “No.” Fraser’s smile was ironic. “I hear she’s devoted to good works and is a pillar of her church.”

  “Beautiful! With police all over the place and John Smith doing his thing!”

  As the dinner hour approached, Karen waited for Laura on the footbridge. “But I didn’t want to interrupt your painting,” she said as they fell in step together, “but I wanted to tell you about my little chat with Mr. Switzer. I think he rather enjoyed being picked up by the police on Banff Avenue. He said it saved him the taxi fare.”

  “Sounds like Jeremy. What did he have to say for himself?”

  “He admits knowing that the death of the plaintiff puts an end to a libel action. He claims that he only learned of it after he talked to his attorneys and told them about Montrose.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I’m still trying to make up my mind about that. He’s so offhand about things that he’s very hard to read. But it may not matter. He seems to have an unshakable alibi for the night Montrose was killed.”

  “Which you’re not going to tell me about.”

  The policewoman shot the artist a sideways look. “There are times when you are positively uncanny. You’re right, I’m not going to tell you what his alibi is. Not now, anyway. But it’s fully corroborated.”