Murder as a Fine Art (19 page)

“Right on,” she found herself murmured as she read a paragraph that stoutly declared there was nothing wrong with fiction “constructing rather than reflecting realty.”

Her eyes were beginning to burn. Marking her place with the flap of the dust jacket, she was surprised to see that she had read almost half the thick tome. Holding it with both hands, she placed in on the bookshelf next to the row of Richard's novels. There's plenty of room for both of you in the world of literature, she thought to herself. Richard knew that, but Norrington refused to accept it.

She turned out the light and stepped out onto the balcony. The dark mass of Mount Rundle was limned with moonlight. With a slight shudder Laura realized it was eerily like the way it had been lit by the fire that took Erika's life.

J
ohn Smith must have worked all night, thought Laura as she read one of his new posters on her way to breakfast. He would be determined to fill the theatre. Having it only half-full would be an intolerable blow to his pride. The poster confirmed the change of venue and promised startling revelations when John Smith, “who knows all, would reveal all.” There was no mention of what the “all” might be, although, under the circumstances, there was a clear inference that it had something to do with the mysterious deaths on campus.

Those deaths continued to remain mysterious, Laura mused as she stood before the poster, lost in thought. With the subcutaneous bruising, Montrose's death might well have been murder although Jeremy, the only one known to have a motive, apparently had an unshakable alibi. Erika's death was almost certainly murder, but what was the motive? It was Geoff Hamilton who had made the one telephone call she received, and she might
well have told him that they were through. Karen obviously thought of him as a possible suspect.

Laura snapped out of her reverie when Richard walked up to stand beside her. Scanning the poster, he muttered, “So we are going to have ‘revelations' are we? And John Smith is going to reveal all.”

“Knowing him,” Laura said as they turned away and headed for the Banquet Hall, “it could simply mean that he will take off his clothes.”

“How did you get along with Henry's book?”

“Amazingly well. I was thinking of it as kind of a ‘duty' read. I see him every day and I thought I should know something about his work, but it was fascinating. He writes beautifully. He comes across completely differently than in person. Have you read any of his books?”

Richard blinked in surprise. “Good Lord, no.”

Constable Peplinski brought a copy of the poster into Karen's office where she was working at her desk. She frowned as she read it and told the constable to find John Smith and bring him in for an interview.

This time there was no difficulty in locating the performance artist. Within minutes Peplinski was back. Closing the office door, he told Karen that John Smith was waiting in the hall. His eyes widened as he told her that he had found him in his studio painting an image of Satan on the body of a girl who was stark naked. So complete was the paint job that at first Peplinski had thought she was wearing a costume. “Her face was all made up with slanted eyebrows and her pubic hair had been shaved off,” he told the bemused corporal. “To make it easier to paint her,” he added helpfully. “He even introduced me,” he said in a tone of wonder. “Her name is Charlene.”

Karen gave a tight-lipped smile and asked him to show the performance artist in. She waited a few moments before acknowledging John Smith's presence. Glancing up from the poster spread out on her desk, she said, “I'll get right to the point. If you know anything about the murders, it's your duty to tell me.”

“So it's ‘murders' now, is it? You're finally admitting that old Montrose was murdered.”

“I'm treating his death as murder, until proven otherwise. Exactly what is it you know about these deaths?”

“What makes you think I know anything about them?”

“You're telling the whole world that there's going to be a revelation, that you're going to reveal all.”

“The poster doesn't even mention murder.”

“It won't be long before everyone will think you intend to reveal the identity of the murderer or murderers. Are you saying that's not true?”

“I guess everyone will have to wait to find out.”

Although she knew it wouldn't do any good, the policewoman tried to pressure John Smith into telling what he knew. Knowing that appeals to his duty as a law abiding citizen would only amuse him, she warned him that he had foolishly placed his life at risk and that the only way to protect himself was to tell the police what, if anything, he had found out.

“That makes it all the more interesting, don't you see?” John Smith seemed exasperated by her obtuseness.

“What I see is that this whole thing is one of your performances. Was setting fire to Erika's studio one of your performances, too?”

“I liked Erika. She was my friend.”

“You told me that before. But I hear that she was frightened of you.”

John Smith, white with fury, stood up. “May I go now?”

“Yes. But if it's true that you really don't know anything about the murders, I'd advise you to make that known as soon as possible.”

“But who would believe me?” John Smith asked as he quietly closed the door behind him.

Carrying the lunch the kitchen staff had packed for her, Laura was determined to remain in her studio all day, working on the structure of the first panel of a large triptych she was planning to paint. The problem was what object to put below the open window with a view of the mountains in the background. Seated at her desk, Laura penciled in several designs in her sketchbook. None of them worked.

Her subconscious must have continued to mull over the problem, because, as Laura ate her lunch, she suddenly knew it should be a wooden stool with a violin and bow lying across it. Hastily finishing her fruit salad, she began sketching in the outline with rapid, confident strokes of the charcoal pencil.

She drew the bow in several positions before deciding it worked best lying beside the violin. Late in the afternoon, she put down the charcoal. The colours she would decide on tomorrow. Colour was never a problem for her. It was the composition that had to be thought through, a process that could sometimes require her to spend hours studying a painting, lying on the floor or climbing a stepladder to look at it from all angles.

Exhilarated by the breakthrough she had made, Laura locked her studio and headed back to the residence. Looking to her left she saw Henry Norrington trudging with that rolling gait of his up the path from
his studio, and decided to wait for him. The depth and clarity of his perceptions had both astonished and impressed her, and she wanted to tell him so. As an artist, she knew how rewarding it was when someone responded to one's work, and understood and appreciated what it was about. Norrington's ego was inflated enough already, but like all art, his work had a value and an existence of its own, entirely apart from himself as a person.

“I was reading one of your books last night, Henry,” she said as he came up to her.

“Oh. Which one?”

“
Demystifying Deconstructionism
. It's fascinating.”

“I'm glad you think so,” said Norrington, visibly preening himself. “I, of course, wrote about deconstruction in writing, but much of what I said could also apply to painting. The proponents of that misguided doctrine would have it apply to all the arts.”

“I agree with them on that, at least. There should be no boundaries in art.”

“‘In my Father's house are many mansions',” Henry quoted gravely. “And so it should be with art.” He paused as if to allow time for the thought to sink in, then said, “Your own paintings, I am glad to say, are the very opposite of deconstructionist. If I read them correctly, they themselves are the object, and not some hidden, underlying agenda. Incidentally, they are, to my untutored eye, quite beautiful.”

Laura smiled to herself as she thought of the recently completed Dance With Death. But that was an aberration, altogether apart from the mainstream of her art.

“Thank you. It pleases me to hear you say that. And you're not fooling me with that business about an ‘untutored eye'.” Laura smiled, at him, then went on
thoughtfully, “I think that the creation of a beautiful image, is, as you say, what I am really out to achieve. In my recent paintings I'm trying to capture not so much the thing itself, but the
effect
of the thing on the viewer. Some of my fellow artists criticize what I'm doing, saying that my work is irrelevant and that I should be seeking to reveal the great unifying principles that underlie everything. Your comment that instead of unifying, the deconstructionists only succeed in putting everything asunder, was a revelation to me.”

“Hmm. Yes.” Norrington's glance fell on one of John Smith's ubiquitous posters tacked, against all the rules, to the side of a music hut. “I have become quite wearied of that word recently.”

“I know what you mean. But his promise of a revelation seems to be working. I hear they expect to fill the theatre. Listen.” Laura stopped abruptly at the edge of the service road. Music, glorious music, was pouring out of the large music hut across the way. Someone, it could only be Isabelle, was playing a piano with verve and great virtuosity.

“That has to be a concerto,” she said as the music soared and thundered out through an open window. “And I bet I know whose it is. Let's see.”

The curtain had been pulled aside and the window was wide open. It was as though the pianist wanted everyone to hear this magnificent music. Isabelle was seated at the Baldwin concert grand, her trained fingers flying over the keys. Marek, eyes half-closed in concentration stood beside the piano, his right hand conducting an imaginary orchestra.

Laura and Norrington lingered on the cinder path and let the music wash over them. Ordinarily, Laura would have felt uncomfortably like a voyeur, but not this time. The two lovers were so wrapped up in the
music that it wouldn't have mattered to them if the whole world stood outside their window. Concertos are designed to showcase the soloist, and Marek had provided ample scope for his beloved to display her virtuosity. Isabelle had been right when she predicted it would quickly become part of the standard repertoire. Concert pianists would fall upon it with delight, recognizing it as a perfect vehicle to show off their talents. They would vie with one another as to who could decorate each phrase most elaborately.

The music thundered to a crescendo, then abruptly ceased. Norrington started to applaud, but Laura grabbed his hands and jerked her head to indicate they should move on. Intent on getting Norrington out of there before he did or said something that would break the spell, Laura failed to notice John Smith standing motionless in the trees at the far end of the hut.

But there was no overlooking Veronica Phillips. The beautiful young cellist, hidden from the music hut by a curve in the path, stood as if transfixed. Seeing the tears glistening in her eyes, Laura murmured a greeting and kept on walking. But Veronica put a hand out to detain her.

“Wasn't that beautiful, Laura? I'm so proud of him.” Veronica's attitude thrilled Laura. It was art at the highest level; an act of creation transcending personal considerations and being hailed as the masterpiece it was. She smiled at Veronica. “The world of music is a much richer place today. I feel privileged just to be here.”

“I'll wait for you in the parking lot,” Norrington said gruffly, seeing that Veronica wanted to talk to Laura.

“Is it finished?” asked Laura. “I don't know enough about music to know.”

“Not quite. There are some missing passages in the
andante,
and he still has some of the third movement to
write. But he has plenty of time to finish it before he leaves.” Veronica's lip quivered at the thought of Marek leaving and she dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. “When it's finished I'm going to ask him to transcribe it for the cello.”

“That would be nice,” Laura murmured diplomatically, knowing it would be the last thing Marek would want. The piano concerto was his song of love to Isabelle and he wouldn't want to dilute it in any way.

“That's what's so wonderful about this place,” said Laura as she joined Norrington in the parking lot. “There's always something to inspire you.”

“That was truly inspiring,” he agreed. “An epiphany, if you like.”

“Well, my dear,” he said with a courtly little bow as they rode the elevator to the sixth floor. “I greatly enjoyed our little talk. Perhaps we could continue it after dinner. I suppose Richard will tag along with you, but I doubt that a discussion of deconstructionism will be of much interest to him.”

“You shouldn't underestimate Richard,” she chided Norrington. “He's a very intelligent man. And I like his books. I've got them right beside yours on my bookshelf. I was thinking last night that there was plenty of room in the literary firmament for both of you.”

“Humph,” sniffed Henry, opening the door of his room. “If that's so, his would be a mighty dim star.”

“I thought you told me Charlene was a lesbian.” Richard nudged Laura as they walked into the lounge and pointed to Jeremy and Charlene chattering animatedly at a table overlooking the pool.

“She is. And Jeremy is bisexual. Maybe she is too. Anyway, gay people are often the best of friends with
the opposite sex.” As if to confirm what Laura was saying, Charlene threw her head back and shook with helpless laughter.

“Maybe he's telling her about the reviews of his play,” grinned Richard. “Whatever it is, she's eating it up.”

But there's somebody who isn't, thought Laura. Kevin Lavoie was standing just inside the entrance, a strange, almost bewildered, look on his face. Laura waved at him, but he didn't seem to see her. He turned on his heel and left.