Читать книгу Murder as a Fine Art - John Ballem - Страница 8

Alan Montrose was sprawled headfirst on the concrete steps below the stairwell landing. A narrow trail of blood ran from his nostrils down his right cheek. Blocked by a dense, tangled eyebrow, it filled his eye socket and was spreading across his forehead. Blood seeped from his ears and dripped onto the concrete.

Laura Janeway’s hand flew to her mouth to hold back the gorge rising in her throat. She swallowed hard, the sound loud in the bare concrete stairwell. The sickening angle of his head told her that Montrose was beyond help. Nevertheless, she forced herself to feel for a pulse, pushing back the sleeve of his dressing gown to expose his wrist. His skin was still unpleasantly warm to the touch and she was aware of the rank stench of alcohol. Finding no sign of life, Laura sat back on her haunches and looked up at the top landing. The railing was dangerously low, coming barely above her knees. For some time she had been meaning to mention it to Kevin, but had never gotten around to it.

Kevin would have to be notified. Stepping carefully over Montrose’s lifeless body, she climbed the stairs to the landing and opened the door to the hallway of the sixth floor that housed the members of Leighton Artist Colony. Once in her room, she glanced at the clock on her bedside table. Twelve-thirty. Kevin would be in bed asleep, but that hardly mattered. The phone rang four times before Kevin Lavoie picked it up. “Jesus!” he swore softly after Laura told him about finding the body. “We don’t need that!” As the artist colony’s coordinator the burden of dealing with all the details surrounding the death of a member would fall on him. “I’ll get dressed and come right over,” he told Laura, asking her to make sure that nothing was disturbed.

Laura went into her bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Squaring her shoulders, she went back to the stairwell. Taking a firm grip on the metal railing, she leaned over and stared down at the body sprawled on the steps below. Montrose had either been in bed or had been preparing for bed. His portly body was dressed in pyjamas and a paisley silk dressing gown. What in the world had brought him out here to meet his death? Some of the initial shock had worn off, but that head lolling helplessly to one side made her wince. She sat down on the top step and stared straight ahead at the blank concrete wall as she waited for Kevin.

She didn’t have long to wait. Kevin lived in a near-by duplex provided by the Banff Centre and he joined her in less than fifteen minutes. His blond hair was thinning, and he wore a perpetually harried expression that went with coping with the artistic temperaments that came and went in the colony. Laura was fond of him.

“He’s been drinking,” Kevin said as he bent over the body. He sounded relieved as though he had found a defence to any claim that might be brought against the Centre. “Not that there’s anything unusual about that.”

“The police will have to be informed,” said Laura.

Kevin looked as if he would have liked to protest, then sighed, and said, “You’re right, of course.” He patted his pocket. “I’ll use the pay phone at the end of the hall.”

“10-11.” Corporal Karen Lindstrom replaced the microphone in its clip and told the driver to proceed to Lloyd Hall at the Banff Centre, but not to turn on the siren or the flashing lights. Minutes later, the corporal’s terse “10-7” told the dispatcher that they had arrived at the scene.

Lavoie greeted the Mountie like an old friend. He seemed relieved that she was the one who had responded to the call. After introducing her to Laura, who was struck by the policewoman’s Nordic good looks, he gave a nervous little laugh and, with a suggestive sniffing of the air, said that it shouldn’t take much detective work to figure out what had happened. The corporal’s expression was noncommittal as she pulled a video camera from a carrying case and began to film the scene. The young constable with her, who looked as if he was not long off a Saskatchewan farm, was securing the area with yellow crime scene tape.

Kevin Lavoie flinched when the Mountie focused her camera on the low railing. Then she switched it off and climbed up to the landing to look down at the corpse. Gazing around at the bare concrete walls she said, “There’s nothing here he could grab on to.”

Turning around, she carefully backed up against the railing. “The deceased looks to be a little bit taller than I am,” she said, almost as if talking to herself. “It would have been quite easy for him to topple backwards and land on his head. Was he a heavy drinker?”

“I understand he got sloshed every night,” replied Lavoie. Laura confirmed this with a reluctant nod.

“The circumstances seem consistent with an accident.” The corporal seemed to be choosing her words with care. “However, the body can’t be moved until the medical examiner gives the okay. He should be here before too long. While we’re waiting, maybe I could get a brief statement from each of you.”

“I don’t have anything to contribute,” Kevin told her. “I was in bed when Laura called. I got dressed and rushed over. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to tell the president about this unfortunate accident.” The Mountie nodded permission and Lavoie hurried away.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Ms. Janeway, but I get the impression that you’re not as convinced as Mr. Lavoie that we’re dealing with an accidental death.”

Laura looked at her thoughtfully before replying. With her blond hair neatly tucked under her cap, ice blue eyes, and clear skin glowing with good health, Corporal Lindstrom looked as though she could pose for a recruiting poster. “What troubles me,” Laura said finally,” is what Alan was doing out here in the stairwell at this time of night. Or at any time, for that matter. He never used the stairs. You’ve seen how overweight he was. And where was he going in his pyjamas and dressing gown?”

“Anything else?” The corporal was looking at Laura keenly. “For instance, how did the deceased get along with the other members of the colony?”

Laura hesitated before saying, “You’ll find out about this sooner or later. Alan Montrose was suing Jeremy Switzer, a New York playwright, for libel. There was a nasty scene between them at dinner tonight.”

“Libel? That’s pretty serious. Is your room on this floor? We can talk there if you like.”

Laura nodded, thinking to herself that the police-woman seemed to have more than a passing knowledge of the Banff Centre. Corporal Lindstrom told the constable to let them know when the medical examiner arrived.

Laura’s room, like all the others on campus, was spartan in its simplicity, but she had added little touches — a vase of freshly cut flowers, a few photographs, and stacks of illustrated art books — that gave it a homey, lived-in look. With Laura’s permission, Corporal Lindstrom switched on her tape recorder and placed it on the narrow built-in desk.

“Everybody in the colony knows the story,” Laura began, “but it really came to a head tonight. Montrose fancies — fancied — himself a gourmet and, as usual, he had fortified himself against the Banff Centre cuisine with several stiff drinks in his room and brought a bottle of red wine to the table. In many ways, he was a pompous ass and the drinks didn’t make him any better. Or any more tactful. Montrose is — was, rather — a professor of English at Mount Hedley, a small college in Illinois. He wrote marginally successful plays on the side. Jeremy also writes plays. Appallingly bad plays. Jeremy is a dilettante, a professional art colonist who flits from one art colony to another. I have often thought that his plays are just an excuse to go on living the colony life. But Montrose took his plays very seriously, just like he took himself. About a year ago, poor Jeremy wrote an article for a literary magazine accusing Montrose of plagiarism, claiming that the plot of his latest play, The Hostile Act, had been lifted holus-bolus from the doctoral thesis of one of Montrose’s graduate students. It caused quite a sensation. Montrose issued a furious denial, and Jeremy unwisely pressured the student into launching a court action against Montrose for plagiarizing his work. The case fell apart in the courtroom when Montrose was able to prove that he had been working on the play long before the student enrolled in his class.”

“And the shit hit the fan.”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Laura after a startled pause. “And then it turned out the student’s claim had been motivated largely by revenge because Montrose had intervened and prevented him from obtaining an academic post. Ever since he arrived here last month, Montrose has been taunting Jeremy, and tonight he announced that his attorneys had commenced an action against Jeremy in California, where he lives when he’s not at an artist colony. The magazine and the student are also being sued, but Jeremy knows he’s the real target. The student is judgment proof because he’s broke, and the magazine limps along from one financial crisis to another. You know how it is with those literary magazines.”

“No, I don’t. But you will tell me.”

“They couldn’t even afford the premium for libel insurance. Poor old Jeremy is out there all by himself, twisting in the wind. He basically lives on a family inheritance, that’s what enables him to live the colony life. The lawsuit could wipe him out. His attorneys are trying to settle, but Jeremy knows Montrose would never settle. He wanted vindication and revenge in the full glare of a public trial.”

“Jeremy Switzer seems to have confided a great deal to you.”

Laura shrugged. “We’ve known each other for years. We both like to come here to Banff whenever we can. Besides,” she added somewhat ruefully, “I seem to be the kind of person that people like to tell their troubles to.”

“I think it would be useful to have a talk with this Mr. Switzer. Is he on this floor?”

“Two doors down the hall. I’ll show you.”

The Mountie knocked on Jeremy’s door, softly at first so as not to disturb the other residents, then more forcefully. But there was no answer.

“He could be in his studio.”

“At this hour?”

Laura grinned. “This place operates on a twenty-four hour basis.”

The young constable came down the hall to tell them the medical examiner had arrived. The corporal turned to Laura. “Look, I hate to impose any further on you, but could I ask you to go down to the colony with Constable Peplinski,” she paused to introduce them, the Mountie touching the peak of his cap in an informal salute, “and see if Mr. Switzer is in his studio?”

As they stepped outside into the cold night air and began walking down the cinder path that led to the artist colony’s studios, Laura learned that her intuitive guess had been correct — he was a farm boy. Constable Peplinski had grown up on a farm a few miles north of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. Banff was his first posting since graduating from the RCMP Depot in Regina, he informed Laura as they walked past the deserted music huts toward the little footbridge that separated the colony from the rest of the Centre.

The Banff Centre for the Arts was a large, university-type institution, which offered post-graduate courses and instruction in music, painting, writing, dance, and drama. The famous “campus in the clouds” was located on Tunnel Mountain in the Canadian Rockies, overlooking the resort town of Banff, and attracted students from all over the world. The Leighton Artist Colony was an exciting offshoot of the Centre. It consisted of eight individual studios deep in a pine forest on the eastern edge of the campus. It was designed to be a working retreat for professional artists with a proven track record — a chance for them to escape the demands of everyday life and concentrate on their art, whether it be writing, painting, or composing music. Each artist was assigned one of the studios for the duration of his or her stay, which could be up to three months. The artists lived in the Centre’s residence, and took their meals with the students and staff, but did not take courses or attend lectures. They were there to create.

“That’s the Hemingway Studio,” said Laura after they had crested the footbridge and approached the first building, a round hut with shingled sides.

“I’ve read some of Ernest Hemingway.”

Laura smiled in the shadows cast by the single light burning outside the round, shingled studio. “I know why you would think that. But it’s not the case here. The studios, there are eight of them out here in the woods, are named after the architects who designed them. Peter Hemingway was an Edmonton architect.”

Laura wasn’t surprised to see that the lights were on in the boat studio. Erika was putting in brutally long hours in her determination to finish her book before her time in the colony was up.

“That boat looks kinda out of place way up here in the mountains.”

“Parks Canada thought so too,” Laura replied. “They claimed it was out of keeping with the mountain setting and fought like mad to keep it out. But they were overruled. The Centre has a lot of clout in this town.”

“How did they get it in here with all the trees?”

“Lowered it in by helicopter.” Laura pointed out a wooden frame building at the edge of the path. It was barely visible in the darkness. “That’s my studio.”

“Were you there tonight?”

“Yes. I painted until eleven or so, then relaxed in the whirlpool and took a swim. And then... well, you know what happened after that.”

“Do you always use the stairs instead of the elevators?”

“Most of the time. I do it for the exercise.”

Jeremy’s studio, a round tepee-like structure, built of logs and designed by the celebrated Canadian architect Douglas Cardinal was at the far end of the cinder path that circled the colony. It was dark, as Laura expected it to be. It wasn’t Jeremy’s style to toil late into the night. However, there were times when he would sit in his studio at night, sipping wine and listening to classical music.

Now that they knew Switzer wasn’t in his studio, Peplinski was in a hurry to get back to the scene of the crime. He picked up the pace and they soon left the colony behind them. As they rounded the music huts and stepped onto the parking lot, they saw an ambulance parked by the side entrance of Lloyd Hall. Because of the slope in the ground, the parking lot was level with the third floor. Out of consideration for the sleeping residents, the ambulance’s lights were turned off.

Peplinski left Laura at the door of her room, thanked her for her help, and disappeared through the stairwell door. Laura stood for a moment looking up and down the hallway. All the doors on the floor remained shut. The fire door that led to the stairwell effectively sealed off all sound from that direction, and if any of the artists happened to hear footsteps in the hallway, they would have ignored them. They were experts at minding their own business.

Or they would have simply assumed it was Marek Dabrowski on his nightly treks to Isabelle Ross’s room.