Murder as a Fine Art (20 page)

“Your usual, Dr. Norrington?” The barman asked as the trio passed by on their way to a table.

Norrington nodded, and Richard said, “And we'll have a bottle of Chambertin.”

“Have you seen this?” Laura held up a copy of the Centre's newsletter as Richard pulled out a chair for her. When both Richard and Norrington shook their heads, she showed them an item headed “Colony Resident Accepts University Post.”

“Dr. Marek Dabrowski,” it read, “has accepted an appointment to the prestigious Indiana School of Music. He will take up the appointment in September. Dr. Dabrowski, a resident artist in the colony since January 15, said in an interview that he will have a light teaching load and will be able to devote most of his time to composing. While at the colony, Dr. Dabrowski finished writing a sonata in C-minor and is currently at work on a concerto for piano and orchestra.”

“That is, indeed a very prestigious appointment,” murmured an impressed Norrington. “It will do much to further his career. Not,” he added, “that he is not already well established and highly regarded in the world of music.”

“That could give Marek and Isabelle the perfect opportunity to begin a new life together,” said Richard.

“Marek is going to dedicate his concerto to her,” Laura told them. “It will be called the ‘Isabelle Concerto' and she will give its premiere performance. According to her, every orchestra in the world will want to make it part of their repertoire.”

The drinks arrived and Norrington, in a tone of voice that brooked no denial, changed the subject to the philosophy of deconstructionism.

“Many deconstructionists believe that depicting something monstrous and deformed by itself amounts to a philosophy,” he intoned.

“That explains some paintings I've seen,” murmured Richard.

“Just so,” agreed Henry, taking an appreciative sniff of his brandy. “They purport to believe that rational discourse, such as we are enjoying tonight,” he added benignly, serene in the knowledge that virtually all of the rational discourse would be his own, “obscures the real meaning of life.” He shook his massive head at such heresy. “Instead of rational discourse, they treat words as ‘constructs' that must be decoded in order to discover their true meaning. I admit there is the occasional instance when this seems to work. Take ‘menopause', for example. It doesn't require all that much imagination to interpret that as the time when a woman may ‘pause' in her relations with ‘men'. It's not hard to see why the philosophy of deconstruction is so popular with feminists. In fact, they have virtually taken it over.”

“That sounds like an exception that doesn't prove the rule,” Richard interjected.

“An apt way of putting it.” Norrington raised his brandy snifter as if to salute the felicity of the phrase.

“But if you carried this idea, or philosophy or whatever it is, to its logical end, wouldn't it lead to the deconstruction of deconstructionism itself?” asked Laura.

‘Precisely,” Henry beamed at her. “I addressed that very point in an article I wrote called
The Paradox of Deconstruction
. It did not endear me to the deconstructionists,” he added with a complacent smile. “Incidentally, that article is the last thing I wrote or intend to write about deconstructionism. I have turned to larger, grander themes.”

“As in
How The Post Modern Novel Challenges The Boundaries of Art
,” murmured Laura. “A subject like that should give you all the scope you could possibly want.”

“And I am taking full advantage of it. That is the opus I want to be remembered for. As I am sure I will be.”

“Still, it was your early work on deconstruction that originally got you tenure at the university, wasn't it?” asked Richard.

“And I am duly grateful. But deconstructionism is only an insignificant blip in the literary panorama I am dealing with now.”

“I'm here to paint, and you're here to write,” Laura reminded Richard when he made as if to follow her into her room. She let him hold her close for a moment, then gently pushed him away.

“I never realized before that making love and making art were mutually exclusive activities,” he grinned. “In fact, I had the impression it was just the opposite.”

“Maybe for some people. But with me it's a matter of energy. I need to conserve it in order to paint at the level I want to achieve. That doesn't mean I don't like you, though,” she added in a subdued voice.

“I know.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “You go to bed and conserve energy and I'll see you in the morning.”

Laura, stimulated by Norrington's ideas and also, she admitted to herself, by the brief physical contact with Richard, knew she wouldn't be able to fall asleep right away. She smiled to herself as she looked at the collection of Richard's titles on the shelf. Taking
The Blue Agenda
down, she opened it at random. Although she had read it before, she was soon caught up in the action, the pages seeming to turn of their own volition. From time to time she paused, silently mouthing the words as if to capture the rhythm of the passage.

A sudden yawn made her glance at the clock radio on her bedside table. Nearly one o'clock. This was no way to store up energy for painting. Worse, when she did slip between the cool sheets, her mind refused to switch off. Words and phrases kept tumbling about in her head.

T
he next morning Norrington intercepted Laura on her way to her studio and insisted that she join him in his studio for a cup of coffee.

“Wasn't that incredible yesterday? Hearing Isabelle playing Marek's new concerto?” asked Laura, taking a careful first sip of coffee. “Those two seemed made for each other. Musically and romantically.”

The portly pundit folded his hands across his middle and smiled like a benevolent toad. “Dabrowski will drop the delectable Mrs. Ross as soon as his stay in the colony is over.”

“You don't know what you're saying. They're madly in love.”

“I know perfectly well what I'm saying. Don't forget I'm a veteran colonist. I've stayed in art colonies all over North American and Europe. So has Dabrowski. Our handsome composer has quite a track record. He invariably enlivens his stay with a passionate affair,
complete with all the romantic trappings — vows of eternal love, jealousy, ardent looks, the whole gamut. Maybe it inspires him to compose. Maybe he just likes the drama of it all. I don't know. But I do know there is a consistent behaviour pattern. When he takes up his post at the Indiana School of Music, he will have an affair with some student. And then break her heart. And then another. And another. I know of one woman who committed suicide when he dropped her.”

“That's appalling.” Laura wanted to deny the shocking things Norrington had said but he spoke with an air of such calm conviction that she knew he was telling the truth. What should she do about Isabelle? Should she try to warn her? Try to prepare her in some fashion for the shock she was in for?

Norrington was speaking again, breaking into her thoughts. “It would not surprise me if we have another death in the colony.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It would be designed purely to cause confusion. Maybe even to suggest there's a homicidal maniac at work. It would have to be completely motiveless, to divert attention from the real motive for killing the real victims. Like Jeremy's motive for wanting Montrose dead.”

“The police haven't arrested Jeremy,” Laura pointed out, without mentioning that Jeremy claimed to have an unbreakable alibi.

“Ah, but there's the motive. And I'm sure if the police dig deep enough into Erika's background they will find a motive for killing her. That's why I say the next murder will appear to be completely random. To throw the police off the track.” Henry paused, “I see it being made to look like a suicide at first but with enough clues to show it was murder.” He paused and gave her a
quizzical look. “Why are you smiling at me like that. I didn't think what I said was particularly amusing.”

“You know, Henry, you're a bit of a fraud,” she chided him playfully. “An entertaining fraud, but a fraud nonetheless.”

“What do you mean?” he demanded huffily.

“You make a big fuss about not reading Richard's books. How you only managed to get part way through one of them. You claim they're completely beneath you. And yet that scenario you've just described comes right out of
It Stalks By Night.
And it wasn't revealed until near the end.”

Norrington shrugged. “There's nothing original about the idea of a red herring murder. It's been used countless times. In fact, because of its lack of originality, I'm not surprised that it found its way into one of Richard's books.”

“If you say so, Henry.” Laura rinsed her mug in the sink. “Thanks for the coffee.” She refrained from thanking him for the troubling conversation.

Men! Seething with anger over Marek's self-centred duplicity, Laura closed her studio door with unnecessary force, vowing to never again let herself fall into the trap that was about to snap shut on Isabelle.

Her anger gradually subsided as she mixed paints and began to add colour to the design she had drawn on the canvas yesterday. The predominant colour was a soft shade of blue with the reddish brown of the violin providing the contrast. Satisfied with the morning's work, she decided to take the afternoon off to do some shopping in town.

It was a pleasant walk down the mountainside to town. Laura purchased some toiletries, another art book, and fresh flowers for her room, then treated herself to an ice cream cone. With time on her hands, she decided to drop in at the RCMP headquarters and see if Karen was on duty.

The RCMP office was on Lynx Street down by the railway tracks. The building itself was modern and commodious, but the reception area was the size of a jail cell, with walls lined with dark Rundle stone, giving it a forbidding, cave-like appearance. “All hope abandon ye who enter here,” thought Laura with a shudder as she pressed a button on the counter.

The duty constable came out and told her that Corporal Lindstrom was in charge of an honour guard at the funeral of a park ranger who had been killed in a helicopter crash trying to pluck an injured climber off Mount Assiniboine. Laura nodded. Lindstrom had been on parade duty at the formal opening of a new wing to the Whyte Museum. “Just tell her that Laura Janeway came by to see her. It's not urgent.”

The constable who obviously recognized her name, glanced at a wall clock and said, “She's due back in about fifteen minutes. Why don't you wait?”

Ten minutes later Karen came out to the reception area to greet Laura. She was resplendent in full dress uniform: wide-brimmed Stetson, scarlet tunic, britches, and brown riding boots complete with spurs.

“Excuse the Rose Marie get-up.” She spoke lightly, but there was no mistaking her pride in the famous uniform. “I had to attend an opening.”

“I know. I think it's very dashing.”

Karen glanced back over her shoulder as she led the way to her office. “You probably don't know what I meant by the Rose Marie crack, do you?”

“I most certainly do. It's an old Hollywood chestnut starring Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald. It had some wonderful songs.”

“It also made a generation of movie goers believe that Mounties spend their time riding black horses through the snow, wearing Stetsons and scarlet tunics, and singing their heads off.”

Karen led Laura across the brightly lit interior to a small office and closed the door to shut out the squawking of radios and jangle of telephones. The walls were bare except for a framed certificate verifying that Constable Karen Lindstrom had been awarded the Distinguished Marksman Award. A row of books were lined up on top of a heating vent.

“I shouldn't be taking up your time,” Laura said.

“Don't worry about that.” Smiling, Karen waved Laura into a chair. “Would you like some tea?”

“Oh, no. I just dropped in to tell you my theory about Jeremy's alibi.”

Karen looked amused. “Which is?”

“Kevin Lavoie. They spent the night together. Right?”

“I told you before that you should be on the force. How did you guess?”

“The look on Kevin's face when he saw Jeremy chatting up a girl from housekeeping. He looked absolutely betrayed. And that time he walked away from the mess John Smith made in the library. It was more of a flounce than a walk.”

“I take it you knew Jeremy was gay?”

“He's bisexual, actually. It's like Jeremy to want to have the pleasures of both worlds. I didn't know about Kevin, though.”

“I have an idea this is a fairly new development in his life,” Karen mused. “It cost him quite an effort to
admit that he was with Jeremy when Montrose was killed in the stairwell.”

Her telephone rang and she picked it up. She listened, then said, “I'll come out.” She told Laura she had to sign a report but it wouldn't take a minute. “Don't go away,” she added, “I want to ask you something.”

While she was gone, Laura glanced over the row of books. Most were police manuals, but there were two legal texts, one on court procedure and the other on the rules of evidence.

“I've been taking Lavoie's word at face value,” Karen said as she came back, closing the door behind her. “You know him. What do you think?”

“I think that if Kevin said he was with Jeremy, then he was with Jeremy. Especially since it required him to admit he had a homosexual encounter.”

“That's how I feel about it, too. Are you going to tell anyone about this discovery of yours, Laura?”

“No. Not so much for Jeremy's sake — he would-n't care — but for Kevin's .”

“This could be habit-forming.” Richard stretched luxuriously.