Читать книгу Murder as a Fine Art - John Ballem - Страница 10

A message flashed on the computer screen when the cashier took Richard Madrin’s Centre Pass and punched in some numbers. The cashier, the chatty one with an earring and taped glasses, told him there was a package for him in the mailroom.

“It’s probably my manuscript,” Richard said. The drama student who worked part-time as a cashier was gratifyingly impressed. “I’ll pick it up after lunch.”

Kevin Lavoie with a potential donor to the artist colony in tow had joined some of the colonists for lunch. With a rueful shake of his head, he began to recount one of John Smith’s recent exploits. The performance artist had dressed himself up as a magician and stationed himself in the foyer of the Eric Harvie Theatre to greet the guests arriving for the play. Pretending he was going to do a trick, he persuaded a number of them to hand over their credit cards.

“Then,” continued Lavoie, “before anyone could stop him, he whipped out a pair of scissors and cut them in half. Two of his victims are big supporters of the Centre and they were not amused.”

“That would only make it all the better as far as he’s concerned,” murmured Laura. “The victim’s reaction is part of a performance artist’s art.”

“Just what is a performance artist?” asked Lavoie’s guest. “I’ve heard the term, but I’ve never known just what it is they do.”

The others looked to Laura to provide the answer. She thought for a moment before saying, “Performance art is hard to define and often harder to take should you be an unwilling participant. Performance artists do not create objects like a painting or a piece of sculpture. They act out a scene or a fantasy and often document it, they call it a ‘happening’, with a video camera. It’s the only art form where the art is created before an audience rather than being presented as a finished product. The performances are frequently violent and dangerous, both to the artist and anyone in the vicinity. You may remember reading about the man in Paris who videotaped himself slicing off pieces of his penis with a razor?”

“Good Lord, yes.”

“That was performance art.”

“That’s odd,” interjected Richard, completely deadpan. “I always figured that was a do-it-yourself sex change operation.”

Lavoie’s guest laughed heartily. Meeting Richard was obviously the highlight of his visit to the Centre. Sensing this, Richard did his bit for the cause, discussing the characters in some of his novels and talking about the challenges and rewards of writing. It was the kind of talk he had given to countless book clubs and it was highly entertaining. He capped it by saying that the edited opening manuscript chapters of his new book had just arrived from his New York publisher and was waiting for him in the mailroom. Lavoie and Laura exchanged knowing smiles as he left. The donor would be putty in Lavoie’s hands after that performance.

“Another bestseller, Mr. Madrin?” The mail clerk smiled as she handed over the parcel. Original manuscript had been typed on the customs form.

“I hope so,” replied Richard as he tucked the package under his arm. “I still have a long way to go, though. This is just the edited version of the first five chapters.”

Inside his studio, Richard sat down in front of his word processor, but didn’t switch it on. Instead he carefully arranged a writing pad, erasers, pencils, scissors, and a roll of scotch tape on the long counter, like a surgeon preparing to operate. Only then did he unwrap the parcel. There was no title page, but that didn’t worry him. The title would fall out of the book as the story unfolded. As usual, there was a lengthy letter from Thea Solberg explaining some of the changes she had pencilled in on the draft. She seemed genuinely excited by what he had written so far. Not only did it have the famous “Madrin action,” she wrote, but this time he had succeeded in creating a truly sympathetic protagonist. The fictional James Hunt made mistakes, and had his share of human frailties, including a tendency to fall into jealous sulks. But he soldiered gamely on, and the reader knew he would prevail in the end.

After reading the part about the main character, Richard jumped up from his chair and walked over to the window. The Evamy Studio, named after the late Calgary architect who had designed it, boasted the most spectacular view in the colony — a tall, floor-to-ceiling window looking out on a cathedral aisle of pines framing the jagged peak of Mount Rundle, soaring above the tree line. But today Richard was oblivious to its grandeur; the editor’s reaction to his new hero exactly mirrored his own thoughts. Maybe James Hunt deserved his own series; thrillers set in exotic parts of the globe featuring the likeable James Hunt with his baggage of human foibles and strengths. Richard’s pulse quickened as he realized that the new book might lead to a television series. Having his stories and characters come to life on the screen had always been one of his greatest ambitions, but it had eluded him up to now. It meant that the hero could not get entangled in any long-term romantic attachments. But that was no problem. The female lead could always be killed off at the end of the book. Or, better yet, she could turn out to be the villain.

Exhilarated by the prospect of achieving the breakthrough he had always sought, Richard returned to his desk. As he expected, Thea’s editorial changes were a lot less drastic than she seemed to think. From the tone of her letter one would think she was taking enormous liberties with his precious prose, whereas in reality her notations were little more than copy editing; substituting a word here, eliminating one there. But she liked James Hunt! That was the important part. Richard’s contented smile deepened as he read.

Erika’s stomach rumbled noisily, reminding her that, almost unheard of for her, she had forgotten to eat her lunch. She switched off the computer and shrugged into her jacket. She would eat out on the deck.

Winter was beginning to relax its grip on the mountains. The light morning snowfall had stopped and the sun had come out, melting the snow into little puddles on the path. Unzipping her jacket, Erika spread out the abundant lunch the kitchen staff, knowing her remarkable appetite, had packed. It was the shadow that made her look up. John Smith’s bare feet made no sound as he mounted the solid plank steps, and Erika suddenly found herself staring directly at his genitalia. He stepped back several paces and said, “Hello, Erika,” his voice echoing hollowly inside the donkey mask, which was all he was wearing. John Smith’s sexuality might be problematical, but physically, he was undeniably a man, as his present costume, or lack of it, made abundantly clear.

“Hello yourself, John Smith,” she replied coolly. “Aren’t you rushing the season a bit?”

He shrugged to indicate her question didn’t deserve a reply, then brought his right hand out from behind his back. “Look what I found in the woods. Do you know what it is?”

Erika stared at the dead bird with distaste. “As it happens, I do,” she replied. Geoff was an avid birder and his interest had awakened her own. One of her first purchases in Banff had been a copy of Birds of the Canadian Rockies. ”It’s a nutcracker. Clark’s nutcracker to be precise.”

“That’s right,” John Smith’s muffled voice sounded somewhat disappointed. “Do you know what a nut-cracker does?” As he spoke he grabbed his scrotum with his free hand and began to squeeze. Horrified, Erika saw the tendons on the back of his hand standing out as he increased the pressure. She turned away and stared calmly into the distance.

His fingers relaxed their pressure and he stood there, still holding the carcass of the handsome grey and black bird in his hand.

“Finished?” she asked coolly. She heard the hiss of his indrawn breath as he stomped off.

“Oh, no!” Erika groaned aloud as she saw Isabelle leading her family down the path. Isabelle was giving them a tour of the colony and they were on a collision course with the naked John Smith who was in a sulk and liable to do anything. It would have been funny except for the little girl. But the child’s presence must have inhibited even John Smith, for he turned aside and melted into the woods. Isabelle’s husband, his hand covering his daughter’s eyes, turned and stared disbelievingly after the apparition. He still looked shaken as they accepted Erika’s invitation and joined her on the deck.

“I guess one has to be prepared for anything around an art colony,” he said with a game smile as Isabelle introduced him. His name was Dennis, and the dark-haired little beauty was Jessica. The child’s eyes were wide with unasked questions as she smiled shyly at Erika.

“John Smith is a little extreme, even for an art colony,” Erika said. “I think he’s put years on poor Kevin’s life. Kevin Lavoie is the colony coordinator,” she explained to Dennis.

“I’ve met him,” he murmured noncommittally. And probably got a pretty cool reception, thought Erika. Kevin did not approve of visitors. He thought they were disruptive of colony life.

Saying, “We mustn’t keep you from your writing,” Isabelle stood up to leave the moment Erika finished her dessert, a generous slice of apple pie and a chunk of cheddar cheese.

Dennis blinked, then scrambled hastily to his feet. “I must say you’re a remarkably dedicated bunch around here. I can scarcely persuade Isabelle to have dinner in town tonight with me and Jessica.”

“I already explained it to you, Dennis,” she said, the strain in Isabelle’s voice was evident, and Erika’s heart went out to her. “I’m way behind my schedule. I’ve still got two Schubert sonatas to add to my repertoire before I leave here. And I have a recording session in Chicago the third week of May.”

“Our time here is a rare and wonderful chance for us to concentrate on our work free of distractions from the outside world,” Erika said, unsure this was the most tactful way of putting it. But perhaps it would help the doctor understand why the family reunion was not turning out to be the joyous event he undoubtedly had anticipated.

Richard’s euphoria over his editor’s comments served him well that night. Henry Norrington was holding court in the lounge of the Sally Borden Building to an audience consisting of several of his graduate students and a few members of the colony. They were grouped around two tables that had been pulled together in the far end of the lounge. The celebrated writer-cum-lecturer, fuelled with a couple of after-dinner cognacs, was in fine acerbic form as he held forth on the subject of modern fiction.

“Sounds like you’re practicing for our television show,” laughed Richard when Norrington came to the end of a lengthy and perceptive discourse on the unlikely, but intriguing, parallels between the Argentinean novelist Manuel Garcia, and the American Roger Newbury.

Norrington’s large nose swung majestically in Richard’s direction. “I’m scarcely in need of practice for that,” he sniffed.

It was only two days before the television “debate” between Norrington and Richard Madrin was scheduled to air. It was a much-anticipated event and one of the main topics of conversation in the colony. An Edmonton station, supported by public funds and with a mandate to spread culture throughout the province, frequently invited various luminaries who visited the Banff Centre to appear on its programs. The presence of both Henry Norrington and Richard Madrin on the campus at the same time was a natural. Norrington, as well as being the author of several widely acclaimed books on philosophy, was also a noted critic and a frequent, and much sought after, guest on television talk shows. Getting the famous guru as a visiting lecturer had been a real coup for the Centre. As part of the inducement for him to come, he had been assigned a studio in the colony — the award winning chapel-like studio designed by Calgary architect Fred Valentine, with its sloping roof and glassed-in porch. The consensus in the colony was that Norrington, with his sarcastic wit and biting contempt for the kind of books Richard wrote, would make mincemeat out of the thriller writer. But Laura wasn’t so sure. Besides the kind of good looks that the camera would love, Richard had an easy-going self-confidence that might serve to blunt Norrington’s barbs.

Now Norrington was telling Richard, in tones of one conferring a signal honour, that he was going to use one of Richard’s books in his creative writing class.

“Oh?” Surprised and pleased, Richard asked, “Which one?”

Norrington shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I only managed to get halfway through one of them before giving up. But that told me all I needed to know. Any one of your books will serve as a perfect example of what and how not to write.”

Norrington’s mocking jest brought a sycophantic titter from one of the students, but the rest of his listeners sat in stony silence.

“Richard’s books are enjoyed by a great many people,” Laura said breaking the embarrassed silence.

“I appreciate your coming to my defence, Laura, but it’s quite all right.” Richard glanced at Norrington with a look that was almost amused. “Henry’s just jealous that my books sell so much better than his.”

This sally brought a gasp of outrage from Norrington, but a spluttered “Nonsense!” was the only reply he could muster.

This was the stuff of legend and Norrington’s students were eating it up. But the undercurrent of animosity between the two men made Laura uncomfortable. She finished her glass of wine and got to her feet. Smothering a yawn, Richard said he would walk back to the residence with her. Outside the building, he paused to gaze almost reverently up at the night sky, the moon riding high among the stars. The air was so crisp and clear that the distant stars seemed almost to crackle. The eerie, high-pitched howl of a coyote floated down from somewhere higher up Tunnel Mountain.

“I love that sound,” Richard murmured. “It’s so wild and free.”

“It sends chills up and down my spine, too,” Laura agreed. “But it also reminds me of the time I put a coyote in a painting. Like everybody else I painted it sitting on its haunches and baying at the moon. A couple of months after the painting had been sold, I received a stern letter from a field naturalist saying that when coyotes howled they stood with all four feet planted on the ground.”

“Did you reply?”

“Oh, yes. I wrote him a polite note thanking him for the information, but telling him that in my paintings, coyotes were free to do whatever they liked.” She touched his arm. “Let’s walk down the path. This night is too beautiful to waste!”

Moments later as they rounded a turn in the path they saw Veronica Phillips standing in front of Marek Dabrowski’s studio.

“Oh, no,” Laura exclaimed softly.

Veronica was listening so intently to the sounds filtering through the studio walls that she started visibly as the two approached. She held a finger to her lips until the music rose to a thundering crescendo then suddenly faltered to a halt. She turned to them with shining eyes. “It’s going to be wonderful! He’s writing it in C-major. It’s the first time he’s written a concerto in that key.”

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.