Murder as a Fine Art (17 page)

“Do?” He frowned at her in some puzzlement. “What do you mean ‘do'?”

“I mean laying charges — destruction of public property, public nuisance. There are a number of criminal charges that could be made to fit.”

Lavoie looked shocked. “This is Art! It's a creative act, not a crime.” He turned to Laura. “Do you think this performance is finished?”

She spread her hands in a gesture that said how could anyone know when one of John Smith's performances was over.

“Well, I'm going to have it cleaned up anyway,” Lavoie said, walking away. Laura watched him go with a thoughtful expression on her face.

Leaning back in a lounge chair with his feet propped up on a table in front of him, Richard grimaced with distaste as Laura recounted the episode of the blood and the semen.

It was mid-afternoon and the lounge was deserted, except for themselves and two men from the grounds staff playing pool. Like many men at the Centre, they wore their hair in ponytails. Their hair was thin and sparse, leading Richard to think, as he often did, that “squirrel tails” would be a more apt description. The clicking of the billiard balls was inordinately loud in the otherwise silent room, and Laura and Richard had retreated to the far end of the lounge to escape from it.

Suddenly Richard jumped to his feet. “What do you think you're doing?” he demanded, hastily pushing back his chair. But John Smith was too fast for him.
With a quick snip of his scissors, he deftly cut a lock of Laura's hair, popped it into a small plastic bag, and was gone, leaving Laura and Richard glaring speechlessly after him.

Laura fingered the spot where her hair had been cut. If she was vain about any part of her looks, it was her luxuriant, golden-brown hair. “He's got me on his video, and now he's got a lock of my hair. I once knew an artist who collected bits and pieces from people because he wanted to be a warlock. He thought he could gain power over people by doing that.”

“I'll get it back.” Richard started for the door through which John Smith had disappeared, but she grabbed his arm. “No, I don't want you to do anything. Not yet, anyway. Let's see what he's up to.”

Outside the Sally Borden Building, they ran into an annoyed and puzzled Marek Dabrowski. “That John Smith,” he said through clenched teeth. “I was sitting on my deck outside the studio going over some sheet music, when he suddenly appeared out of nowhere and grabbed a sheet from my hand. I was going to call security, but I found it shoved under my door a few minutes later.”

“After he made a copy of it,” Laura murmured.

Marek frowned. “What is going on here? First Eckart and now this. Why are they trying to steal my music?”

“What did he mean about Eckart stealing his music?” asked Richard after a fuming Marek strode off in the direction of Donald Cameron Hall.

“I don't think Marek intended to let that slip, but now that he has, here's what happened,” Laura said, and told him about Eckart's attempt to tape Marek's concerto and how Marek had dealt with it.

“Marek would realize that if he made an issue of it, he would be diverted from his concerto,” Richard said.

“You're right, of course. And I would have been dragged into it too.”

Looking into her eyes, Richard said, “I hope all this excitement hasn't made you forget we're having dinner tonight?”

Laura smiled. “See you at seven.”

“Is that you, Laura?” The chief of security came closer and peered at Laura as she stood beside the passenger door of the Ford Taurus, waiting for Richard to unlock it. Her hair was upswept and she was wearing an elegant off-the-shoulder black dress. “For a minute there, I thought it was a member of the Board of Governors.”

Laura laughed. “Can't a poor working artist get dressed up once in a while?”

“You could wear a flour sack and still look like a Greek tycoon's wife,” murmured Richard, holding the door open for her. He was rewarded with a devastating smile.

With so auspicious a start, it was not surprising that the dinner date was a great success. They dined at Le Beaujolais, the soft candlelight suffusing Laura's bare shoulders and lighting her brown eyes with a warm glow. With that disturbing and powerful painting behind her, her artistic conscience was at peace.

“The squirrels stole one of the paintings I'm working on,” Laura said as Richard tested the wine and nodded approval.”

“The squirrels stole your
painting
?” he asked incredulously.

“Not the painting,” she laughed. “The props. When I went to my studio this afternoon I found that they had gotten in somehow and climbed up on the table and made off with the apple and pears I was
painting. Don't ask me how they managed it, but an apple and two pears were out on the balcony with big bites out of them.”

“Maybe you should paint them that way.”

Laura cocked her head to one side. “Now that's an interesting thought.”

As the evening progressed, Richard soon realized that this remarkable woman was the most delightful dinner companion he had ever known. She had a unique way of looking at things, a different and highly intelligent perspective, and an entertaining way of expressing her thoughts. Some of her throwaway lines were so apt Richard found himself committing them to memory for future use. When he mentioned the “virtual reality” group of artists at the Centre, she dismissed them by saying, “When all's said and done with that bunch, it's more said than done.”

Once she paused and said, “I know what you're doing. Jeremy does that too, only he's completely open about it. He scribbles things I say down in a little notebook he carries with him.”

“He should use more of your material. He'd get better reviews. If it bothers you, I promise never to use them.”

“I don't mind. I seem to have an endless supply. You might give me a footnote, though.” She smiled at him over her wine glass.

“You should be a writer. No, I'm serious, Laura. You really should try it. With the way you express yourself, you'd be a natural.”

Laura shook her head. “You're a writer because you write. You put words down on paper. I don't. I may say some amusing things from time to time, but it's just dinner party wit that doesn't transpose to the printed page. I don't write. I paint.”

Richard reached across the table and took her hand. “And you paint superbly.”

They were quiet on the drive back to the Centre. Once he smiled and reached out his hand, and Laura pressed her lips against it.

“You can come in if you like,” she said softly, handing Richard her room key.

“I like,” he said, fumbling with the key. In his excitement it took him a couple of tries to get the door open.

She came willingly into his arms. There was no pulling back as she moulded her firm curves against him. He slowly unzipped the back of her dress, thrilling to the feel of her cool skin. The dress slipped around her waist. She wasn't wearing a bra.

Richard bent to kiss her breasts. She gave a low moan and reached for him. When this lady decided it was time to make love, she didn't hold back. Her passion matched his own as they breathlessly undressed each other.

“Let me look at you,” He took a step back as they came out of a long, passionate embrace. “You're beautiful!” he breathed, awed by the naked splendour of her magnificent body.

“So are you.” Deftly, she slipped a condom over his erection, then took him by the hand and led him over to the bed. She gasped with pleasure as he entered her. Despite her whispered pleas not to hurry, he was so excited by her beauty and unrestrained passion that he reached orgasm while she was still groaning with passion.

“Touch me!” she cried fiercely, and his caressing finger swiftly brought her to a back arching, soaring climax. “I come with instructions,” she said with a demure smile when the spasms tapered off and she was still.

He laughed delightedly and said, “I've got a bottle of wine in my room. Why don't I slip across and get it?”

“Put some clothes on first.”

When he returned, she had wrapped herself in a terry cloth robe and was standing on the balcony. “I love balconies,” she said. “You can see things from them, but somehow you're protected from what's going on out there. That makes me a bit of a voyeur, I guess.”

“You're not a voyeur, you're a painter.”

They stood together sipping wine, before the chill of the night drove them back inside. Glass in hand, Richard walked over to inspect her bookshelves.

“I have to admit it gives me a bit of a thrill to see my books all together like that.”

“You have every right to be proud. Those books are a major achievement.”

“Despite what old Henry says?” “He doesn't matter. What matters is that your books are a good read. All of them. You're probably right when you say he's jealous of your success.”

Knowing that she would be bringing Richard back to her room, she had hidden Norrington's book out of sight. She had an idea that seeing it might bother him. It would be soon enough to talk about it after she had had a chance to read it.

Turning away from the bookcase, Richard untied the belt of her robe and she let it fall from her. When they had both climaxed in their different ways, she smiled up at him and playfully tweaked his nose. “Don't look so macho and worried. That's the way I like it. I told you I came with instructions. But my stomach muscles are going to be sore for a week. It's a good thing I don't paint with them.”

She refused another glass of wine, saying she wanted to have a clear head. “Because tomorrow it's back to painting for me and writing for you.”

Preparing to leave, Richard opened the door and took a cautious peek down the corridor. “The coast is clear.”

“Richard?” Laura called softly from her bed. “I like you,” she said when he turned around.

“And I like you,” he whispered, and closed the door quietly behind him.

“O
ur musicology professor, old Eckart, was going on about the influence of Handel's London oratorios on Haydn, yesterday afternoon,” the music student was saying, “when John Smith walks into the lecture hall. He goes to the tape machine, turns it on, listens for a bit, then takes out a pair of scissors and cuts a piece of tape. Eckart looks like he's going to have a major heart attack. Then John Smith waves the tape in Eckart's face, and runs out of the room, holding it above his head like a pennant.”

Seated across from each other at the breakfast table, Laura and Marek exchanged glances. So John Smith knew about Eckart's attempt to steal Marek's concerto. That didn't surprise Laura. The performance artist prowled around campus at all hours of the day and night, and could easily have come across Eckart's bulky tape machine during one of his forays in the woods. It would be completely in character for him to
keep quiet about his discovery until he was ready to use it for his own purposes.

Laura got up to leave. Richard, grinning wickedly as he saw her wince, picked up his tray and followed her out. “John Smith steals a lock of my hair,” Laura said as she and Richard left the Banquet Hall together. “That's about as personal as you can get. He steals a sheet of music from Marek and music is at the core of Marek's being. He walks into a lecture hall and makes off with a piece of tape from Carl Eckart.”

“And we know what the tape represents to Eckart.”

“Our performance artist is building up to something, Richard.”

“That strikes me as a dangerous game for him to be playing. Dangerous for him.”

“Which would make it all the better as far as he's concerned,” replied Laura. “Danger has always been an element in his art.”

“Are you sure you don't want me to go to his studio and retrieve the lock of your hair?”

Laura shook her head. “No. I'm not superstitious.”

They walked companionably down the path towards the studios. “I'll see you at lunch,” Laura said as they embraced at the point where the path to her studio branched off.

A harried Alec Fraser walked into Kevin Lavoie's office and slumped in a chair. “I just had a call from Harvey Benson,” he said.

“Is the Chinook Foundation pulling out?” asked Kevin with bated breath.

Fraser shook his head. “It hasn't come to that. Not yet anyway. But he made it very clear that he and the Foundation's board of directors are very concerned
about what's been going on around here. I can't say I blame them. Two violent deaths on the campus and a killer still at large.”

“And with John Smith's performance still to come,” said Kevin with a shudder. “Shouldn't we try to postpone their visit until after this mess is cleared up and John Smith's show is over?”

“I've thought of that and decided it's too risky. The sooner we can get the funding agreement signed and the public announcement made, the better. The more time they have, the more likely they are to back out.” Fraser got to his feet. “We'll just have to tough it out. Somehow,” he added with a heavy sigh.

“You've shown me some of the wonders of Banff. Now it's my turn,” Richard said as he and Laura finished lunch. He seemed to be struggling to keep a straight face. “But first let me ask if you've been to the Walter Phillips gallery recently?”

“No, I've been meaning to, but there just hasn't been time.”

“After my gaffe over its name, I figured I should at least check it out. Which I did this morning. There's a real treat in store for you. But they'll be taking it down to make way for John Smith's performance so we don't have much time.”

“Then let's go now.”

The gallery was deserted except for a student attendant, who didn't bother to look up from the book she was reading. Glancing around the gallery walls, huge with large, undistinguished paintings that all seemed to depict a nest of copulating snakes, Laura muttered, “This is pretty boring. Is this what you brought me to see?”