Murder as a Fine Art (6 page)

Marek began to pick out notes again and as Laura squeezed Richard's arm and turned to walk away, her eyes caught something glinting in the moonlight on the ground just off the path. When she narrowed her eyes to focus on it, she could make out that it was a microphone, partially hidden behind a fallen branch. Somebody was taping Marek as he worked on his concerto.

She glanced at Richard. His attention was riveted on her and he hadn't spotted the microphone. “You are very beautiful in the moonlight,” he said softly.

“Thank you.” She slipped her hand in his as they continued up the path. They walked in companionable silence to Lloyd Hall in the silver moonlight. The quizzical look was back in his eyes as they said good night at her door.

What should she do about the microphone? That question kept Laura awake and staring at the ceiling until she finally decided that in all good conscience she must tell Marek about it first thing in the morning. With that decision made, she fell into a restless sleep.

The microphone was still in place. After a quick glance around to make sure there was no one else in sight, Laura
stepped off the path and tramped through the underbrush until she was standing over it. A thin black cord led her through the trees and down into the little ravine. The reel of the tape machine, hidden under a canopy of pine boughs, was revolving at a very slow rate. It contained enough tape to record for hours on end, and it would be an easy matter to change tapes without being seen since the ravine provided cover on all sides.

There was no sound coming from Marek's studio, but the outside light was still burning. Somewhat apprehensive of what her reception might be, Laura knocked on the door. She didn't know how she expected the composer to look after his self-imposed exile in his studio, but she certainly didn't expect the clear-eyed, freshly shaven Marek who opened the door. The only sign of fatigue were the dark smudges under his eyes.

“I hate disturbing you like this Marek, but there's something you should know about.”

“Is it about Isabelle?” he demanded.

“No. It has nothing to do with her. Come with me and I'll show you.”

“You are sure this has nothing to do with Isabelle?” Marek persisted as he followed her along the path.

“See for yourself,” Laura said as she led him down the little ravine.

Marek stared down at the tape machine with its slowly revolving reel. “It's from the music department,” he muttered. “Nobody else has a machine like that.”

“But who would do something like this?”

“I think I can guess, but we'll know for sure soon enough. The tape is almost finished. Whoever it is will have to come back to change reels.” Marek ran his fingers through his dark tousled hair. “The
andante
will be on there. That's what I was working on until just before dawn.”

“But whoever it is couldn't use your music. Everybody would know.”

“Change a note here and a few bars there. Better still, arrange it for violin rather than piano. The important thing is to have the structure to hang the notes on, and the tape would give you that.” Marek was growing visibly angry at the thought of someone appropriating his music in this stealthy and underhanded manner.

The tape was almost down to the spindle. Even though it was broad daylight, Laura shivered. From somewhere down the ravine came the crack of a broken branch, followed by a muffled curse in German.

“It is just as I thought,” whispered Marek. “Carl Eckart—a disappointed and bitter man whose music has been ignored by the world. My concerto would have been his masterpiece.”

“What are you going to do?” Laura whispered as Eckart's thickset figure came into view through the trees.

“Protect my music,” replied Marek. Telling her to stay hidden behind a tree, he moved off.

As she stood there, screened by the branches of a pine, Laura was immediately surrounded by a cloud of confiding chickadees looking for a handout. They had long ago learned that people in the colony could often be counted on for a treat of sunflower seeds or nuts.

Eckart was squatting over the machine, a reel of tape in either hand when Marek came silently up behind him. Both spools fell to the ground when Marek murmured, “I am flattered, Professor, but is what you are doing quite ethical?”

Eckart froze, too stunned to move. Then without lifting his eyes or turning around, he asked in a cracking voice what Marek intended to do about it.

“You are despicable. Beneath contempt. I should report you to the chair of your department.”

Still on his knees, Eckart scrunched around until he was facing Marek. Hands clasped together as if in prayer, he implored Marek not to report him, saying that it would mean instant dismissal and he had no other means of support.

“Get on your feet,” said Marek with distaste. “I
should
report you but I will not do so until I have thought about it. You will collect your equipment and bring it to my studio. Then you will bring me all the tapes. All of them, do you understand?” Eckart nodded, and Marek continued, “We will play them together to verify that I have them all.”

From behind the cover of the pine tree, Laura watched Eckart gather up his equipment. She held her breath as he walked within a few feet of her, winding the microphone wire in neat coils. He was cursing in German to himself, and there was a look of despair on his broad, fleshy face. But there was something else there as well. Fury. The blind, unreasoning fury of one who believes he has been cheated by life.

T
he malodorous flounder, sightless eyes staring heavenwards, lay on the doorstep of the boat studio like some unholy offering. Erika stared down at the unappetizing object with repugnance and something close to fear. It was the same fish that John Smith had been wearing around his neck at breakfast. Its smell had driven the others away and left him sitting alone at a table. He was so outrageously bizarre, it was scary, and to make it worse, he had obviously singled her out as his prime target. Holding her breath, Erika stepped over the fish and entered her studio. She was in a quandary. The performance artist was probably hiding among the trees, watching to see what she would do. If he saw her throwing it away, God only knew how he would react. Finally, she wrapped the fish in several layers of paper towelling and put it in the refrigerator.

Unsettled by the bizarre attentions of John Smith, Erika sat in front of the blank computer screen. She
was definitely not in the right frame of mind to start writing up her astonishing discovery. Instead, she would recheck her research one more time. Booting her computer, she began to call up the document files and soon became totally engrossed in checking and cross-referencing the data.

She was so wrapped up in her work that at first she didn't hear the knocking on the door. She looked at her watch; lunch was at least an hour away. She was tempted not to answer the summons, but the knocking persisted. Sighing, she switched the computer off.

John Smith had decked himself out in a baggy clown costume, white with black and red diamond patches. His makeup was lugubrious, patterned after the heartbroken Pagliacci. Erika tried to block the doorway, but he pushed her aside none too gently and strode to the middle of the small room, his eyes searching every corner of the studio. Then he sighed, walked over to the fridge and opened it. Real tears coursed down his painted cheeks as he unwrapped his odoriferous offering. Placing it reverently on the counter, he whipped out a revolver, held it against his head, and pulled the trigger. It clicked harmlessly, but not before Erika screamed. John Smith looked at the revolver as if disappointed, then thumbed another chamber into position and once more raised the gun to his head. Erika tried to grab it from him, but he held her off easily with his left hand. It was as if her arm was caught in a steel vice. She kicked him on the shins and yelled at him to stop as he kept rotating the chambers and pulling the trigger. When the sixth and final chamber clicked into place, he smiled, held the revolver a few inches from his head and, looking straight into Erika's horrified gaze, pulled the trigger. A small white flag with BANG printed across it in red crayon popped out of the barrel.

“That's not funny.” Erika collapsed into a chair, fighting to get her breathing under control. She frowned at the clown, who seemed ready to take a bow, and said, “I know these stunts,” deliberately choosing a word that would insult him, “are your form of art. And I know they're important to you. But they can be very frightening to other people. And dangerous. What if I had a heart condition? I could have died.”

From the way his eyes lit up, it was obvious that John Smith thought that would have been the icing on the cake. Something that would have made his performance truly memorable. Performance artists were a breed apart, totally egocentric and interested in other people only as potential props for their happenings, or as an audience. Erika knew that pleading with him to leave her alone would just make him concentrate on her all the more. Taking a deep breath, she rose out of the chair and said, as off-handedly as she could manage, “All right, John Smith, I've got work to do. Please take your toys and leave. Including the fish.”

Offended, he drew himself up and headed for the door, leaving the dead flounder behind. He seemed to be favouring the leg she had kicked and that gave her a certain grim satisfaction. Swearing under her breath, Erika threw the fish out the door after him. To her surprise, the ichthyological missile found its target, hitting him between the shoulder blades. He stopped, made as if to turn around, then squared his shoulders, and kept on walking.

The dead flounder stared up at her reproachfully as she strode down the path. She was tempted to leave it lying there but realized its ripening aroma might attract bears. Controlling her temper, she returned to the studio for more paper towels. The kitchen staff would dispose of it in the garbage. The
mention of John Smith's name would tell them all they needed to know.

It wasn't working. And Laura knew better than to try and force it. That would only lead to mistakes, and mistakes at this early stage could ruin a painting beyond repair. Later on, mistakes could be painted over, colour values could be adjusted. But in the early stages, when you were working out the basic composition of the painting and drawing it on the canvas, you had to be inspired. And this morning Laura was definitely not inspired. That degrading scene between Marek and the abject Eckart had eroded her creative energy. She sighed and put down the stick of charcoal.

Perhaps she'd browse through some art books in the library, an exercise that often helped put her back in the mood for painting. Cutting across the parking lot, en route to Lloyd Hall, she saw Richard, keys in hand, standing beside his rented Ford Taurus. His smile was understanding. “Can't paint? I can't write either. I'm going into town and drive around for a bit. Care to join me?”

Laura surprised herself by accepting. But she told Richard that she had a better idea than just driving aimlessly around. “Why don't we grab our swimsuits and go for a dip in the Upper Hot Springs?”

“Fabulous! I've been meaning to go there. Let's meet back here at the car in five minutes.”

“This town has the damnedest street names,” Richard remarked, as they drove downtown. He had just glanced up at a sign that read Wolf Street. “Then there's Caribou Street, Buffalo Street. It's like being in a zoo!”

“Don't forget Bear Street, Muskrat Street, Otter Street and various other members of the animal kingdom,” smiled Laura. “There's even a Gopher Street. It's because Banff is in a national park. I think it's charming.”

It was Sunday and Banff Avenue, the main street, was crowded with tourists hunting for souvenirs and bargains in the stores that lined both sides of the wide boulevard. Nestled in the beautiful valley of the Bow River, high up in the Canadian Rockies, the town of Banff has been a Mecca for tourists ever since the national park was created in 1883, after three labourers working on the construction of the Canadian Pacific Railway came across springs of sulphurous water seeping from the ground. Spring and fall were supposed to be the “shoulder” seasons, but the resort town had become so popular that in reality there were none. As March entered its third week, the snow was beginning to disappear around the town site, but the ski slopes in the higher elevations would remain open for another two months.

The light changed and Richard eased into the traffic. They followed a horse-drawn carriage filled with tourists along the congested street. The carriage turned off just before the bridge and Richard picked up speed. Following Laura's directions he turned left after crossing the bridge and then turned onto a winding road that climbed the pine-clad lower reaches of Sulphur Mountain.

A mile and a half up the road, a sign warned them to watch out for a flagman. The flagman turned out to be a flag woman with long blond hair underneath her red hardhat. She held up a stop sign as two giant earth-movers, travelling fast, bore down on the road.

“They're filling in an abandoned gravel pit,” Laura explained as the first machine barrelled across the road in front of them. “They're going to build a shopping
mall on it. A lot has changed since Banff became a town and got out from under the wing of Parks Canada.”

The second earthmoving machine, belching smoke from its twin exhaust stacks, roared past them and the flagperson turned her sign from “Stop” to “Slow” waving them on.

“Those things always make me think of prehistoric monsters coming to life,” said Laura as Richard accelerated up the hill.

“It's their sheer power that gets to me,” Richard said. “They're like railway locomotives turned loose on the countryside.”

As the roar of the gigantic machines faded in the distance, Laura leaned back against the headrest and said, “I always treasure the moment when you leave the town behind and there's just the mountains.”