Читать книгу Murder as a Fine Art - John Ballem - Страница 11

The 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.”

Richard pulled into the parking lot, shut off the ignition, and blinked in surprise as a deer stuck its head in through the Ford’s open window.

“Meet the famous Upper Hot Springs tourist-friendly deer,” said Laura as she climbed out of the car. “Every day, as soon as the pool opens, they gather in the parking lot to mooch food from the tourists. People aren’t supposed to feed them, but of course they do.”

The deer stood stock still as she petted it. Its coat was surprisingly coarse and bristly and felt something like a doormat. Seeing that no food was forthcoming, the deer nudged the rolled-up bathing suit Laura was carrying under her arm, then wandered off in search of easier pickings.

“It’s much colder here.” Richard tugged at the zipper of his jacket.

“It’s because we’re a lot higher up.”

As they drew near the bathhouse the smell of sulphur permeated the air, leading Richard to mutter that he now understood how Sulphur Mountain got its name. A blackboard outside the entrance to the bathhouse informed them that today’s water temperature was 41° C or 106° F. After changing into their bathing suits, a short flight of steps protected by a glass wall led them from the changing rooms down to the pool.

Standing up to his neck in the water, his head enveloped in sulphurous steam, Richard felt the moisture on his hair begin to freeze. It crackled when he touched it, and he grinned and shook his head. “I’ve got to admit it’s different. Bathing outdoors while the hair on your head freezes!”

Laura smiled. “It’s even more wonderful during a snowstorm. I used to come up here a lot at night. You can look right down the valley and see the lights of Banff. It’s magical.”

There were other bathers in the pool, but the swirling clouds of steam made them virtually invisible. Now and then a breeze would gently blow the steam curtain aside and they could catch a glimpse of their fellow bathers, mostly members of a Japanese tour group, their faces wreathed in blissful smiles. They stayed in the hot pool for the recommended maximum of twenty minutes then climbed back up the stairs to the changing rooms. Laura told Richard she used the same time limit for the whirlpool at the Banff Centre.

“We definitely must do that again!” declared Richard as they drove back down Sulphur Mountain to Banff. They stopped for lunch and then Laura wanted to visit the bookstore on Banff Avenue. There was a book — a tome, really — on Matisse that she particularly wanted. It wasn’t in the Centre’s library, although in her opinion it should have been. She had a copy back in Denver, but it wasn’t one of the books she had brought with her. Now she needed it. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the paintings themselves but the written descriptions of the artist’s approach to painting that never failed to inspire her. And inspiration was what she needed now.

Although famous for its selection of art books, The Banff Book & Art Den did not have the volume she wanted. However, to Richard’s immense pleasure, it did have paperback copies of his two most recent thrillers in stock, as Laura already knew. Laura introduced the store manager to Richard. The visit of the well-known author caused a ripple of excitement. A clerk was dispatched up the circular staircase to fetch another clerk who was an ardent fan of Richard’s books. A customer bought a copy of The Blue Agenda and asked Richard to autograph it for him. Several others, seeing that Richard was happy to oblige, followed suit. Before they left, he had signed all the remaining copies of his books and shaken hands with every member of the staff. The manager promised to move the autographed books to a prominent position just inside the entrance and invited him to drop in whenever he felt like it.

“You handled that beautifully,” smiled Laura as they regained the street.

“I enjoy it. It doesn’t happen often enough to become a nuisance and I like talking about my books. I can see how movie stars get to hate it, though. But book people are considerate; they don’t try to tear the clothes off your back the way some movie fans do.”

As he talked, Richard glanced down at the sidewalk. The breeze was sending a tiny glittery object scuttling along just in front of them. By some fluke of the wind, its pace was the same as theirs.

“It’s a feather,” Laura told him. “It looks like the breast feather of pigeon.”

“It’s almost as if we were taking our pet insect out for a walk,” murmured Richard.

“What a wonderful image! And I love the idea of locomotives being turned loose on the countryside. You should put more little touches like that in your books.”

They smiled at each other as a sudden gust of wind picked up the feather and sent it twirling above their heads.

“Are you prepared for the great debate?” she asked, wondering if she was doing the right thing by reminding him of it. Maybe that was why he had taken the day off — he could be too nervous and keyed-up to concentrate on writing.

But the TV show was obviously not preying on his mind, because he looked at her blankly for a moment before his expression cleared and he said, “Debate? Is that what they’re calling it? They may be right at that. I expect old Henry will do his best to put me down. But I’m going to try and keep it on a higher plane. Take the high road as the politicians like to say—although they never do.”

“When do you leave for Edmonton?”

“We’ll drive down to Calgary first thing in the morning and catch a shuttle flight. We’ll have to stay overnight in Edmonton as the program doesn’t start until 10 p.m. and they’re doing it live.”

Although she was still upset by the flounder incident, Erika forced herself to go back to the studio right after lunch. As she walked along the path, she was so absorbed in thinking about her book that she didn’t see the elk until she was almost upon it. Elk roamed freely in the colony woods, as they did throughout the Banff townsite: browsing on trees, helping themselves to whatever flowers and vegetables took their fancy, stopping traffic as they jaywalked across the downtown streets, and lazing about on front yards like giant lawn ornaments. Although their size was intimidating, Erika had accepted them as part of colony life. But now as a full-grown elk stepped out of the trees and advanced on her, tales of elk attacks came flooding back. After years of relatively peaceful cohabitation with their human neighbours, the elk had suddenly and inexplicably become aggressive. Some blamed it on the floods that had inundated their traditional calving grounds, others blamed it on the golf course that was constructed across their migration route, and still others thought it was the ever-increasing number of tourists that put pressure on the animals. Laura, who seemed to know about these things, said it was because of the fences that Parks Canada had built to keep them off the highway. According to her, the fences had the effect of funnelling the elk right into the Banff town site. Whatever the cause, the fact was that the number of attacks by elk was steadily mounting. The Crag & Canyon, Banff’s local newspaper, carried stories of people having their noses broken and their legs slashed by the once peaceful animals. Since the colonists had to run the gauntlet of elk in order to get to their studios, these accounts were the subject of much mealtime conversation. On occasion, security personnel were called upon to escort the more timorous artists to and from their studios.

Now it very much looked as if Erika was about to become a statistic — the first elk victim in the colony. The cow elk — she assumed it was a cow because it had no antlers — was pawing the ground and pumping its head up and down in a way that said it meant business. Erika took a step back and looked over her shoulder, wondering if the elk would chase her if she ran back up the path. To her horror she saw that the rest of the herd had silently filed across the path behind her, completely blocking it. They stood there motionless, chocolate brown heads all pointing in her direction. Erika retreated a few more steps but the cow elk kept coming on. If only Geoff were here! With his understanding of animals he would know what to do. The elk made a curious whistling sound and lowered its head as if to charge. Petrified, Erika got ready to jump to one side.

And then suddenly, with a wild yell, John Smith was at her side. He was wearing his admiral’s costume and he waved his three-cornered hat at the elk as he fearlessly walked toward the animal, yelling at the top of his voice. The elk stamped her forefeet at the apparition bearing down on her, then snorted, wheeled, and trotted back into the woods. With a sweeping bow, John Smith offered his arm. “Allow me to escort you to your studio, fair lady.”

Erika took it gratefully. “Thank you, John Smith. You were very brave.”

“Yes, I was, wasn’t I?” Adjusting his hat so that it sat squarely on his head, he said, “It’s too bad I wasn’t properly attired for the occasion. My cowboy outfit would have been perfect. Or better still, I should have been dressed as a matador. That’s what I was. A matador!”

Safely inside her studio, Erika wondered if she would be able to concentrate on her writing. The elk incident was a perfect excuse to put off once more dealing with the scandal. Did she have the right to invade people’s lives and expose them like this, she asked herself for the hundredth time. She knew that was the real reason she kept postponing the moment when she would commit the story to paper. But the encounter with the elk had sent adrenaline coursing through her, giving her a sense of almost reckless well-being. Yes, she would write it, and now was the time to tackle it. She pressed the power switch on her computer.

After four hours of furious, non-stop writing, the first draft of the explosive chapter was almost finished. With it went all Erika’s doubts about whether she should publish it. Seeing the words on paper made it seem more like an exciting game, complete with delightfully recherché clues. And it hung together beautifully. They would never dare sue her. Or would they? There were big reputations at stake here and they would undoubtedly deny her story outright. Then the pressure to put up or shut up might compel them to launch legal proceedings. Just like with Jeremy Switzer. But, unlike Jeremy’s allegations, hers would stand up in court. Once the vital clues were pointed out, everything else fell into place. Erika banged the pages on the desk to straighten the edges and placed them in the manuscript box.