Murder as a Fine Art (14 page)

Richard, who was a strong swimmer, ploughed up and down the Olympic size pool with a smooth, powerful crawl. Laura had never really mastered the crawl, so she did a few laps with her serviceable side stroke, then rolled over on her back to look up at herself reflected in the glass roof, delighted as always to see the black mask.

“People can be funny, can't they, Richard?” Laura mused as they rode up in the elevator. “I feel so badly about Erika, and miss her terribly, yet I'm happy because a painting is working for me.”

“I understand that,” Richard said as they got off at the sixth floor. “Art has a life of its own, altogether separate from the workaday world. I hope that's not the only reason you're happy,” he added teasingly.

Laura made a face at him and stopped at his door, which was next to the elevator. “Good night, Richard,” she said, turning up her face for a kiss.

He kissed her, then took her arm.

“I'll walk you down the hall.” Her room was at the far end of the corridor, next to the stairwell. Richard went past her door and looked into the stairwell. “They still haven't done anything about that low railing. You'd think they'd at least put up a warning sign.”

“They won't do anything until all this is history.” Laura fished in her bag for her room key.

Laura let out a small sigh of exasperation when the cashier pointed to the message on the computer screen. Corporal Lindstrom wanted to see her as soon as she finished breakfast. Laura was beginning to entertain second thoughts about having agreed so readily to assist the police. She depended on her sojourns in the colony to get a great deal of work done. She was already beginning to feel the pressure of the September show she had committed to do for Isaac's Gallery.

At home in Denver there were so many demands on her time that her productivity suffered. Her friends thought that as a single, unattached female she had all the time in the world to paint. They could never comprehend how much of her time and energy had to be devoted to purely clerical and administrative tasks. While having a part-time studio assistant helped to some extent, Laura was the one who had to make arrangements for paintings to be shipped, to deal with galleries and art consultants, to arrange for shows of her work, to send out invoices, and pay the bills as they came in. Until this time, her stays in the colony had been gloriously free of such non-creative demands and interruptions. But now the outside world was intruding with a vengeance.

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 from 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.”

“W
hat 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.”