Murder as a Fine Art (22 page)

“He doesn't look it, but Henry must be in pretty good shape,” Laura said, watching him surge through the water with a bow wave that a tugboat might envy.

“As I've said before, I kind of admire the guy.” Richard handed her a glass of wine. “He never lets anything stop him. Look at the way he handled that pool attendant. It was as if he wasn't there.”

“It would kill him to admit it, but I think he admires you, too.”

Richard stared at her. “Where have you been all this time? Haven't you heard him put me down every chance he gets?”

“I know. But, believe it or not, I think Henry is a secret fan of yours.”

“You've got to be joking!”

Laura smiled. “I admit it's just a guess on my part. Yesterday morning, he described a scenario that was right out of
It Stalks By Night.”

“Oh? What was that?”

“The third death that looked like suicide was really murder, and it was meant to be a red herring to distract attention from the killer's real motive.”

“I don't think that means much. The idea of a red herring murder is pretty trite. In fact, I was a little embarrassed about using it.”

“That's what Henry said as well. Still, it's kind of a neat idea, isn't it? Old Henry heaping scorn on your books in public, while secretly devouring them.”

“Dream on,” Richard laughed.

The academic year was coming to an end, and the bulletin boards were festooned with notices of recitals, lectures, readings, and performances. It was impossible to take them all in, not even those of particular interest. But Joyce Evans, a senior multimedia artist from England, had become friendly with most of the colonists during her stay. She had made a special point of personally inviting Laura and Richard to her presentation, and they had agreed to come. Using the pool as the venue was an unusual twist and Laura was looking forward to it.

At dinner that evening, Richard rounded up Jeremy Switzer and Norrington to accompany them, telling Henry with a laugh that after all the trouble he had caused in the pool that afternoon he owed it to Joyce to attend.

Henry drew himself up indignantly. “I caused no trouble. I merely exercised my rights.”

“Good for you,” said Richard. “But you realize you could have been electrocuted?”

It was obvious the idea had never occurred to Henry. “Nonsense!” he expostulated after giving Richard a startled look. “They wouldn't dare.”

A goodly crowd had assembled in the lounge and along the shallow end of the pool by the time the little contingent from the colony arrived. When it was announced that “due to unforeseen circumstances' the show would be delayed a half-hour, some drifted away, intending to spend the half-hour taking in some other event.

“How does it feel to be an ‘unforeseen circumstance', Henry?” asked Richard with a grin. Henry tried to remain deadpan, but he couldn't resist grinning back.

A rippling high-pitched wave of sound announced the start of the show. There was a moment of complete darkness, then spotlights bathed the swimmers in a rainbow of colours. There were seven of them, all women, lined up along the edge of the pool at the deep end. The lights shifted, changing colours as the performers dove cleanly into the pool one after another.

The atonal sound glissaded down the scale to be replaced with the melodic tinkling of bells. Applause broke out as the swimmers spread out to form a wheel. The wheel gathered speed, then broke apart to form another pattern. What followed was basically a sound and light show augmented by synchronized swimming and a kaleidoscope of images flashing on and off a giant screen suspended over the pool. It was pleasant, but unfulfilling. Laura felt that she should be grateful it carried no message, since virtually every performance at the Centre was heavy with social comment and symbolism. Nonetheless, she had expected more, and it was with a faint sense of disappointment that she joined in the polite applause that greeted the end of the show. Joyce Evans stood spotlighted on the diving board to take her bows. She was turning to leave when a voice came over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, for a
real
show, remember it's Tuesday night at the Eric Harvie Theatre when the great red dragon will speak.” A computer picture of a dragon appeared briefly on both sides of the giant screen and then was gone.

“Talk about stealing the show!” said Richard as he paid for the drinks.

“John Smith shouldn't have done that,” said Laura. “He knows better.”

“Knowing better never stops our boy,” replied Richard, leading the way to a table near the bar.

“Jeremy, you've been helping out at the theatre,” said Laura. “Do you have any idea of what's going to happen?”

“Some. Enough to know that it will blow what took place here tonight right off the wall. But if you're asking me if I know what the big revelation is, the answer is no.”

“I keep thinking that it will turn out to be another one of his stunts. He's quite capable of leading people on and then leaving them empty-handed.”

“Anything's possible with that guy,” Jeremy agreed.

“Dangerously possible,” added Norrington.

Carl Eckart was walking over as if to join their little group, but turned away and went over to stand at the bar when he saw Marek approaching them.

“Did you see Joyce's show?” Laura asked Marek as he pulled up a chair and sat down. “I didn't see you in the audience.

“Alas, no.” Marek spread his hands in a gesture of regret. “I would have liked to, but my concerto is at a very demanding stage. I am anxious to finish it so that Isabelle can have it before she leaves.”

“A farewell present?” Norrington asked innocently.

“It is not meant as a gift. It is a tribute to her artistry,” Marek replied smoothly, giving Norrington a tiny shake of his head as if to warn him off.

Norrington lifted the brandy glass to his nose for a long, luxurious sniff. “Ah, yes. Is it not wonderful that the art world is so full of beautiful and talented women?”

Marek pretended to be oblivious to Henry's innuendo. “Ah, yes,” he replied with a soulful sigh, “we are truly blessed in that regard.”

“There was Joan the violinist,” Henry said in a reminiscent tone, ticking them off on his fingers, “Olga the pianist, Irene the composer, and of course we can't forget poor Evelyn who met with such an unfortunate fate.”

“I must return to my work.” Marek abruptly stood up and strode off after jerking a formal bow in Laura's direction.

“Not exactly subtle, my friend,” murmured Richard. “That was a list of Marek's conquests, I assume?”

“A partial one.”

“I wonder if the fair Isabelle knows about this?” As always, Jeremy was alert to the possibility of mischief.

“No. And you're not to tell her,” said Laura.

“I have no intention of doing that,” Jeremy replied with a show of indignation.

“So Marek has a past?” Richard mused as he and Laura rode up in the glass-sided elevator to the floor that connected with Lloyd Hall.

“A spectacular one according to Henry,” Laura told him. “Henry unloaded all this on me yesterday. I wish he hadn't.”

“You're not thinking of telling Isabelle, are you?”

“No. It wouldn't do any good. If Marek runs true to form, she's in for a heartbreak sooner or later. Warning her now would only speed up the process.”

“I'm going to contact a real estate firm in Denver tomorrow and have them start looking for a condo I can rent. If that's all right with you? I promise not to take up too much of your time,” Richard added hastily as he saw the look on Laura's face. “Okay?”

“On that condition, okay,” Laura smiled.

They said goodnight at her door, both of them aware that their relationship had reached a new plateau.

Preparing for bed, Laura thought about this new development in her life. Having Richard as a more or
less permanent part of it was exciting, but first there must be no secrets between them. She took
Mission to Mykonos
down from the shelf and leafed through it until she found the passage she wanted. She nodded to herself. It was as she remembered.

Snow had fallen during the night, blanketing the bare ground and making everything seem new and pristine. Laura had slept badly, but her spirits lifted as she walked through the glistening white landscape on her way to breakfast. Veronica Phillips, her cheeks flushed and looking almost unbearably beautiful, was on her way back from the Banquet Hall.

“Guess what?” she called out as she drew closer.

“Professor Dabrowski... Marek... wants me to apply to the Indiana School of Music. He's sure I'll be accepted.”

“With Marek's backing I'd say you're a shoo-in,” Laura said. “Congratulations!”

As an ecstatic Veronica turned and walked away, Laura thought to herself, that arrogant, scheming bastard!

Laura had finished her breakfast and was drinking herb tea. Her lips twisted in a grimace of distaste as she thought about Marek and how neatly he had arranged for his next romantic interlude. It was almost as if he stored women until he needed them, like some species of spider that wrapped their victims in a silken shroud and hung them up in the web until they were ready to be sucked dry. And she had been so sympathetic to Marek and his star-crossed love!

“If looks could kill, there'd be another death in the colony,” Karen said as she slid into a seat opposite
Laura with a cup of coffee. As usual, the cashier had refused to let her pay for it. Free coffee was one of the universal perks of the police.

“Men can be absolute bastards at times, can't they?” mused Laura.

“Some men more than others,” the policewoman agreed. “Is this something personal to you?”

Laura looked shocked. “Good God, no!”

“Does it have any bearing on the case?”

“I don't think so.” Laura hesitated. “But you better know about it, so you can judge for yourself.”

“What a sleaze bag!” Karen exclaimed when Laura finished her little tale of duplicity. “And he's such a handsome son of a bitch!”

Laura expected to hear the thundering notes of the concerto as she approached the hut on her way to her studio. Instead, she heard the furious voice of Isabelle Ross. “If you think I'm grateful to you for telling me this, Carl Eckart, you are very much mistaken!”

“I just thought you should know,” replied the musicology professor as he emerged through the hut's open door in quick retreat. He stopped short when he saw Laura, then brushed past her without a word, his thick lips twisted in a triumphant smirk. He must have overheard Norrington taunting Marek in the crowded lounge last night. It would be his revenge for the humiliation of being caught trying to steal Marek's music.

Now that she had driven her tormentor off, the impact of what she had heard was hitting home to Isabelle. She was clinging to the doorjamb for support, her face drained of colour and numb with shock.

Laura hurried up the walk to her side. “Are you all right?”

Isabelle swallowed, and blinked her eyes as if trying to bring things back into focus. “I'll be okay in a minute.” She took the Kleenex Laura handed her and wiped her eyes.

Laura put a protective arm around Isabelle's shoulders and led her over to a chair.

Isabelle gave Laura a grateful smile, but her eyes had the same hurt, bewildered look that Kevin Lavoie's had when he saw Jeremy chatting up Charlene. But there was something else there too. The lady was thinking. Her expression cleared as if she had reached a decision.

“Marek...” A tremor crept back into her voice. “Marek says he will have a complete score by the end of next week and my agent has talked to the conductor and he's agreed to make it the centrepiece of my concert in Chicago.”

Isabelle clearly intended to put aside her grief for her newly lost love for the sake of the concerto. Laura got to her feet. “Well, if you're sure you're all right, I'll let you get on with it.”

Isabelle followed her to the door. “Nothing, nothing whatsoever must be allowed to interfere with the concerto,” she muttered fiercely, as if to reinforce her determination.

“I know Marek feels the same way.” Laura paused on the doorstep. “I'm sure both of you are headed for a great success with it.”

Isabelle made as if to say something, then changed her mind. Closing the door behind Laura, she hurried across to the piano, flexing her long fingers in anticipation.

Although there was less than an inch of snow on the ground that would melt away before noon, the support staff had run a snow blower over the path. They try to take such good care of their artists, Laura
thought. And yet here we are, dropping like flies. She shook her head at the irony of it.

C
harlene parked the rented pickup truck outside a service entrance to the theatre building. Jeremy climbed out of the passenger side, his nose wrinkling at the smell of kerosene. Charlene lifted the canisters out of the back of the truck and placed them carefully on the ground. “You can help me carry them in, if you like.”

Feeling like an accessory to a criminal act, Jeremy picked up two of the canisters and followed her into the theatre. “Your boyfriend sure likes playing with fire,” he muttered.

“He's not my boyfriend, he's my mentor. And fire is his preferred method of expression.”

“As in the boat studio?”

She turned around to stare at him. “You're not serious?”

“I guess not. But,” he added as they continued on their way down the concrete corridor, “it's the only theory that makes any sense.”

Charlene stopped at a door with a replica of a human hand nailed to it. The hand pointed to a sign that said
Prop Storage
. As Jeremy expected, the room was crowded with props from past performances that were still used to rehearse with. Rapiers and fencing foils sprouted out of round bins like umbrellas in a stand. Masks and witches' hats hung from tall poles, and stage furniture was stacked everywhere. Charlene placed her canisters on the floor beside two covered urn-like vessels that gleamed dully like gold, and motioned Jeremy to do likewise. Each vessel had a spout and as he bent over, Jeremy saw that dragons spitting fire had been etched on their sides.