Читать книгу Murder as a Fine Art - John Ballem - Страница 9

Laura’s sleep was interrupted by vivid and frightening dreams. She would wake up and then drift back to sleep again, only to fall into another mini-nightmare. In the morning the only one she could remember was a bulging eye spouting blood while its owner leered malevolently at her. In the bizarre way of dreams, the leering head was crowned with a top hat.

Soaping herself in the shower, Laura felt the incurve of her waist and smiled. Thanks to the Centre’s bland cuisine, she had lost five pounds since her arrival. She had weighed herself yesterday at the pool, and 135 pounds at five-foot-eight was just where she liked to be. Stepping out of the shower, she scrubbed herself vigorously as if trying to cleanse herself of last night’s gruesome discovery. Montrose had not endeared himself to her or to anyone else in the three weeks he had spent at the colony. She hated the way he had tormented Jeremy over the impending lawsuit, but in his own unpleasant way he had been enjoying life and didn’t deserve to have it snatched away. No one did. Life was too precious and fragile a gift.

After towelling herself dry, she slipped into a terrycloth bathrobe, picked up the hair dryer and walked over to the window that overlooked the woods where the studios were located against the background of a snow-clad Mount Rundle. Richard Madrin was returning from his morning run. In his early forties, Madrin was fit and very good-looking. His handsome features were saved from being too preppie by the quizzical gleam of intelligent good humour in his grey-green eyes. And, so far as Laura knew, he was unattached. The break-up of his long-term relationship with a famous female television newscaster had been widely written up in entertainment and television guide magazines a few months ago. Laura was attracted to him, there was no denying that. But she had no intention of letting another man control her life. Her ex-husband was also an attractive man, but he had turned into a control freak as soon as they came back from their Caribbean honeymoon. He insisted on managing the household finances himself, refused to let her have a bank account, let alone a credit card, discouraged her from driving a car, and alienated her friends. In retrospect, Laura wondered why she had put up with it for five frustrating years. But she had been young — only nineteen — and unsure of how to assert herself against his self-confident and domineering personality.

It had been art that finally freed her. Driven by an irresistible urge to paint, she had found the courage to defy him and enrol in an art college. When her paintings began to sell, she left him and later filed for divorce. Laura smiled at the memory of the scandalized look on the judge’s face when she said she wasn’t asking for any of the marital property or any financial support. All she wanted was to be free.

Although it was pretty clear that Richard Madrin was interested, he had not made any advances. He would have heard the rumour — a rumour she had planted herself — that she had a lover back home in the Denver. There was no such person, but being taken for a “monogamous single” left her gloriously free to pursue her art without the distraction of dealing with would-be lovers.

Turning away from the window, she began to dress, her firm resolve to remain unattached and independent somewhat shaken by the fact that Richard Madrin was an attractive and intelligent man who did-n’t come across as someone who was into control. On the contrary, he was easygoing and laid back. He could well afford to be laid back, since he had made himself independently wealthy by flipping office buildings. And his books, which he wrote as a sideline, were beginning to sell extremely well. Sideline or not, he took his writing seriously and was rumoured to have retained a public relations firm to keep his name and his books in the public eye. He couldn’t control the book reviewers though, and some of the “serious” critics took delight in putting down his thrillers. But none of them were a patch on Henry Norrington, Laura thought as she let herself out of her room.

With her usual interest in people she liked and in what they were doing, Laura, after getting to know Richard, had gone to some trouble to familiarize herself with his books. The Centre’s library didn’t carry fiction, but she had bought the two that were still in print at The Banff Book & Art Den on Banff Avenue, and by phoning several second-hand bookstores in Calgary, located one which had three of his out-of-print books. The bookseller was cooperative and agreed to package the books and put them on the Banff shuttle bus. He also promised to look for Mission to Mykonos, the only one she was missing, and send it to her.

Richard’s books were not the kind Laura would normally read, but she found them, if not earthshaking, at least entertaining and surprisingly informative about places and events. They certainly didn’t deserve to be savaged the way Henry tore into them in the reviews he wrote for the Associated Press newspapers. These thoughts occupied Laura on the short walk to the Banquet Hall in the basement of Donald Cameron Hall.

The Banquet Hall was buzzing with the news about Alan Montrose. Kevin Lavoie had made the announcement to the members of the colony and the Centre’s graduate art students. He emphasized that it had been an accident and, while unfortunate, shouldn’t be allowed to interfere with their studies or their art.

Laura joined the other colonists at the table where they usually sat. As always, John Smith sat at a table by himself, downing one large glass of orange juice after another. Today the tall, gaunt performance artist was dressed head-to-toe in black, complete with a bowler hat set squarely on his head. His face was smeared with white greasepaint. Reminded by his hat of her too-vivid nightmare, Laura gave a slight inward shudder.

Kevin Lavoie was passing among the tables, answering questions about the fatality and assuring everyone once again that it had been an accident. As he approached their table, Henry Norrington declared, “Of course it was an accident. I’ve told you before that that low railing is an accident waiting to happen.”

“It already has,” interjected John Smith from his nearby table.

Ignoring the interruption, Norrington went on, “You really should do something about it, Kevin.”

“We’re looking into it,” Lavoie assured him, knowing full well that months would pass before anything would be done about it. Fixing it now would amount to an admission of fault on the part of the Centre.

All conversation at the table ceased when Jeremy Switzer joined them. “How come everyone looks so glum?” he asked blithely as he sat down, carefully arranging his breakfast tray in front of him.

“Alan Montrose was killed last night,” Laura told him.

“What? What do you mean ‘killed’? How did it happen?”

“He fell down the stairwell on the sixth floor.”

“I’ll be damned!” Jeremy’s fingers were combing his beard. He cleared his throat and looked around the table. “Well, as you all know, there wasn’t any love lost between Alan and me, but I’m sorry he’s dead.”

“It was an unfortunate accident,” Lavoie said soothingly.

“Murder will out,” John Smith chanted in his flat monotone as he put down his napkin and stalked out.

“John Smith always hopes for the worst,” remarked Laura.

“He had been drinking, I assume?” asked Richard Madrin as, freshly showered and shaved after his run, he sat down next to Laura. He had heard about Montrose from a student he met on his way to breakfast.

Lavoie nodded glumly. “He reeked of the stuff. At first I was relieved because it could absolve the Centre from any liability, but then I realized it could backfire on us. As we all know only too well the provincial government is hell bent to make even deeper budget cuts, and we’re a prime target. Montrose falling down the stairs dead drunk in the middle of the night is going to give them some great ammunition. A lot of politicians think of artists as parasites living high on public funds and this will only confirm it.”

As he replied to Madrin’s question, Lavoie’s tone was deferential. The wealthy speculator in commercial real estate was a potential donor to the Centre, which depended on private donations to supplement the steadily shrinking public funding.

Erika Dekter got to her feet. “It may sound callous, but I’ve got work to do.” Erika was only five-foot-two and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her diminutive frame, but she had an appetite out of proportion to her size. The breakfast she had just finished included fruit juice, three fried eggs, bacon, sausage, and several slices of toast. Erika was slightly hyper and had the metabolism to go with it. Her creative energy must burn up a lot of calories too, Laura thought. The two women had become fast friends during their stay in the colony.

“I’ll go with you,” Laura said and drained the last of her coffee. As they climbed the Banquet Hall staircase to the ground floor, she said, “Isabelle looked absolutely devastated, I didn’t realize she and Montrose were close.”

“It wasn’t because of Montrose,” replied Erika dryly. “Isabelle’s family is coming to visit her.”

“Oh no!” breathed Laura. Visits from “outside” were regarded as disruptive influences and were not encouraged. But this went far beyond that. Isabelle Ross and Marek Dabrowski had been carrying on an intense love affair for weeks. A coup de foudre was the way Henry Norrington, in his own pedantic fashion, had described the first meeting between the pianist and the dark-haired composer. Everyone on the sixth floor of Lloyd Hall was aware of Marek’s nightly excursions down the hall to Isabelle’s room. The attitude of the other artists toward the star-struck lovers was nonjudgemental and even protective. It was the sort of thing that was almost inevitable in the hothouse atmosphere of the colony.

“She’ll have to put her rings back on,” Laura murmured. “You said her ‘family’. What family does she have?”

“Her husband. He’s a doctor. And a young daughter.”

On the way out Erika picked up the box lunch she had ordered. They walked the short distance to Lloyd Hall and remained chatting together for a few moments on the front steps. Erika was going directly to her studio, while Laura was going to take a break in her room to sort out her thoughts and mentally prepare herself to resume painting. “How’s the book coming?” asked Laura. “You’re certainly putting in some incredibly long hours.”

“I can’t seem to stay away from it. A couple more chapters and I’ll have finished the first draft.” Erika was about to say something more, but broke off as John Smith suddenly appeared before them. Doffing his bowler, his painted face devoid of expression, he executed a more than passable tap dance, ending it with a low bow.

Laura clapped her hands, while Erika remained stony-faced.

“That’s very good, John Smith,” said Laura, using, as he insisted upon, his full name. She very much doubted it was the name he had been christened with; it was the kind of stripped-down name performance artists often choose for themselves. John Smith produced two pink carnations, seemingly out of the air, presented them with a flourish, and skipped away, whistling to himself.

Laura fingered her carnation. It was plastic. Typical of John Smith. With him, you never knew what was real and what was false.

“I bet I’ll find him hanging around my studio,” Erika muttered. “He’s beginning to seriously annoy me.”

“He certainly has fixated on you. I’d like to think that he’s harmless, but I’m not at all sure he is.”

“I’ll go along with it for now,” said Erika as she began to walk away. “But if it keeps up, I’ll tell him where to get off.”

“Which would probably be just fine with John Smith,” said Laura. “It would add a note of tension to his ‘art’. That’s the problem in dealing with performance artists. They stand everything on its head.”

If only Geoff were here, thought Erika as he headed for the colony. He would know how to handle John Smith. But Geoffrey Hamilton was history, she reminded herself sternly. She would have to deal with John Smith on her own.

As the Banquet Hall emptied, Kevin Lavoie made his way up to the small office in the administration building that had been assigned to Corporal Lindstrom for the purposes of her investigation. From past experience he had some reason to hope she could be prevailed upon to handle the investigation into Montrose’s death with discretion. She had been gratifyingly discreet about that bizarre business of the poison pen letters and the bearded poet. But the Mountie quickly disabused Lavoie of the notion that an investigation into a death under suspicious circumstances could be handled in the same low-key fashion.

“We’re dealing with a possible homicide here, not a gay lovers’ tiff,” she said. “You might as well brace yourself to deal with the media.”

Lavoie found out how right she was as soon as he returned to his own office. His secretary informed him that both a newspaper and a television reporter were downstairs in the reception area, requesting an interview.

“I’m told you wish to see me.” Jeremy Switzer stood in the open doorway.

Corporal Lindstrom looked up and closed her notebook. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Switzer.”

“I didn’t realize I had a choice,” he murmured as he sat down on a chair facing her across the desk.

She responded with a wintry smile and took a moment to size him up. Laura Janeway had described him as a professional art colonist and he certainly looked the part. He was wearing a thick woollen sweater over an open-necked denim shirt and faded blue jeans. His thinning brown hair was tied back in a sparse ponytail, and the lower half of his face was covered with a salt-and-pepper beard. He seemed blithely unconcerned as he waited for her to speak.

“You know, I’m investigating the death of Mr. Montrose?”

“Yes. But I don’t know why,” Jeremy said with a shrug. “Montrose topples over a railing and breaks his neck. End of lesson.”

“No one seems to know what he would be doing on the landing at that time of night. Apparently he never used the stairs.”

Jeremy snorted. “The old fart was probably so pissed he didn’t know where he was.”

“I understand he was suing you for libel?”

“So you’ve heard about that load of crap.” As always, when the lawsuit was mentioned, Jeremy was defiant, but the Mountie saw his fingers tugging at his beard, as if to distract his thoughts by the self-inflicted discomfort.

“You weren’t in your room last night. At least not at the time it happened.”

“No, I wasn’t.” Although it was hard to tell with his beard, Jeremy seemed to be smirking. “I was in a much more romantic place.”

“And where was that?” Karen picked up her pen.

“Oh, I can’t tell you that! It wouldn’t be fair. My lover has a reputation to protect.”

“You’re saying you were with someone last night?”

“It was heavenly. The start of a wonderful new relationship.”

“With who?”

“I’m not prepared to tell you. The age of chivalry may be dead, but some of us still have a code of honour.” Jeremy frowned. “You’re acting as if this was a murder. Lavoie said it was an accident.”

“It’s a death under unexplained circumstances. It’s our duty to investigate such cases and part of that investigation is to interview people who knew the deceased and to establish their whereabouts at the relevant time.”

“I’ll tell you this much, Corporal,” Jeremy said, leaning back in his chair. “I have an iron-clad alibi. If push comes to shove, I’ll trot it out. But not until then. Okay?”

“Definitely not okay, Mr. Switzer. I could charge you with withholding evidence. But since the investigation is still in its preliminary stages, I’ll just put you down as an uncooperative witness.”

“I’m doing my best to be helpful,” Jeremy said with a pout. “Don’t waste your time on me, Corporal. I can prove I was nowhere near the residence last night any time I have to.”

While Corporal Lindstrom was having her unsatisfactory interview with Jeremy, Laura was on her way to her studio. Snow drifted gently down through the lodge pole pines as she walked along the path. Her steps slowed as she approached the large music hut that housed the elegant Baldwin concert grand. Isabelle Ross was playing Rakhmaninov’s Second Piano Concerto with savage intensity. Laura had never heard her play Rakhmaninov before. Very likely this was Isabelle’s way of venting her feelings at the prospect of leaving her new lover’s ardent arms for those of her husband.

As she continued along the path, she heard the deep, soulful strains of a cello seeping through the thick walls of one of the tiny wooden huts where the music students practiced. That would be Veronica Phillips, the graduate music student who was so openly and hopelessly infatuated with Marek Dabrowski. Laura had seen this sort of thing happen before at the Centre. In fact, she had been here two years ago when, to the shock of the entire community, a young ballet dancer — a “bun head” as they were called — threw herself off the sixth-floor deck because of her unrequited love for a principal dancer, who she never lived to know was gay and thus beyond her reach. Someone like Veronica, Laura thought, had probably been studying music since she was four or five years old. She comes here with this sheltered background of being immersed in music, with playing the cello the focus of her entire life, and meets the man who wrote the music she had played and loved since she was a child. Someone who was darkly handsome in the intense way the public thinks composers are supposed to look. But, unfortunately for Veronica, Marek is head-over-heels in love with someone else. So the student suffers silently as she sees them doing everything together — taking long walks through the woods, attending concerts — all the wonderful, fun things lovers do. To make it worse, she can’t escape from them, not in the closed world of the Centre.

As always, Laura paused for a reflective moment on the footbridge. There were times when life at the Centre outdid the soapiest soap opera, but with the symbolic act of crossing the little bridge she knew she could temporarily leave all distractions behind and concentrate on her art. She laughed with delight as the falling snowflakes landed on her upturned face; one fat flake spiking itself on her eyelashes, blurring her vision. Refreshed, she crossed the bridge and decided to walk all the way around the path that circled the studios.

Even in daylight, there was something spectral and unworldly about the boat studio, so far removed from its natural element. Its weathered hull rested on a wooden cradle, and it was sheltered from the elements by a plexiglass canopy. Maybe the fact that it had sunk and had been raised from a watery grave accounted for its ghostly aura. While certainly picturesque, it was not popular with visiting artists because the narrow hull made for cramped working quarters. But Erika loved the way it allowed her to work at her computer and reach for her research files on the shelves behind her without moving from her chair. Laura looked for any sign of John Smith lurking among the pine trees, but she couldn’t spot him. That didn’t mean he wasn’t there, of course. The way John Smith had zeroed in on Erika was as disturbing as his unpredictable behaviour. There didn’t seem to be anything sexual about it, at least not in the usual sense.

The Evamy Studio made extensive use of glass and Laura could see Richard Madrin sitting at his desk deep in thought. Like the boat studio, it was designated for writers, but it was much more spacious, a feature Richard appreciated since it gave him room to pace back and forth as he plotted the scenes of his novel. As Laura walked past, he got up from his desk, walked over to the window and gave her a friendly wave. Laura smiled, waved back, and continued on.

It was dynamite. Pure dynamite! Dare she use it? Without it her project would be little more than a scholarly treatise, unknown outside academic circles. If it got published at all. With it the book could be a publishing sensation. It might even make the New York Times bestseller list. Erika pinched herself. Get real, she thought. But a shiver, whether of fear or excitement she couldn’t tell, ran through her as she bent over the computer printouts spread out on her desk. She was sure she was right. But what if she was wrong?

She took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes, and got up from the chair. She would draft the section to see what it looked like. To see whether it would turn out to be as sensational as she thought. Writing a draft didn’t mean she was committed to using it, but she wouldn’t do it today. She’d let it simmer in her subconscious while she worked on another, completely innocuous chapter. She paused for a moment, knowing that the bit about the subconscious was just an excuse to postpone putting the actual words down on paper. Erika wondered why she was so reluctant to start. It was because the whole thing was so unbelievably incredible. Incredible but true, she added to herself.

Equally incredible was the way in which her excitement over her discovery and the fact that her book was nearing completion had distanced her from Geoff. Until she had come to this remote and magical place, she never would have believed that she could think of Geoff Hamilton without breaking up inside. After three years of an on-again, off-again relationship, he had decided to remain in his loveless marriage with two teenage children. A few days ago, he had called from New York saying he realized that he had made a mistake and wanting to come to Banff. She had astonished herself by telling him that she didn’t want to see him. Not until her stay at the Centre was over, at least. That shocked him, as she knew it would. She had been so devastated when he told her he was ending the affair that now he couldn’t seem to accept the possibility that she might not want him back.

The sudden ringing of the phone startled Laura so much that she almost dropped her brush. As it was, a broad smear of yellow was added to her already splattered bib apron. Every studio was equipped with a phone, but it was for emergency use only. In all the time Laura had spent at the colony, her studio phone had never rung. Her thoughts flew to her parents, cruising somewhere in the Caribbean on board their ketch, Star Chaser. She took a deep breath and reached for the phone. It was Kevin Lavoie, apologizing profusely for the disturbance, saying that Corporal Lindstrom would like to see her. Laura hesitated, then told him to send the policewoman to her studio. Laura rarely invited visitors to her studio, but when she did make an exception it invariably resulted in a pleasant surprise. Only the week before she had agreed to let Carl Eckart pay her a call.

She had agreed to the visit because the gruff Eckart was a musician, a professor of musicology in the music department and a composer of sorts. Musicians seemed to have special insights into her paintings. At the time of his visit Laura was playing a CD of some far-out jazz to energize her as she painted. Two days later he had presented her with a tape of the same music he had reproduced on his synthesizer. He had carried all the notes away from her studio in his head.

“Fascinating,” murmured the policewoman, several minutes later as she gazed around the high-ceilinged studio with its north-facing skylight. “I’ve never been in an artist’s studio before.” Her eyes travelled along the paintings propped up against the walls. “I know I’m not qualified to give an opinion, but I like them. Especially that one.” She pointed to a large painting of a room with a piano and a balcony overlooking a turquoise sea. “It looks so serene and peaceful.”

“You have a good eye.” Laura waved her to a chair and looked at her enquiringly.

“I’m here to enlist your help, Ms. Janeway.”

“It’s Laura.”

“Great. I’m Karen.”

Corporal Karen Lindstrom. How perfectly it suited her.

“I’m an artist,” Laura said, “not a detective.”

“That’s precisely why I would like to have your help. All the players are artists and I’m not confident that I know what makes them tick. Especially after meeting Mr. Switzer.”

Laura smiled. “I see what you mean. What did Jeremy have to say for himself?”

“He passes off the lawsuit as a nuisance, but he’s bluffing. He couldn’t stop tugging at his beard. The man’s worried sick.”

Laura nodded. “What did he say about last night?”

“He claims he has an alibi for the time of Montrose’s death, but he won’t tell me what it is. Doesn’t want to ruin his lover’s reputation, he says.”

“Can he get away with that?”

“For the moment, yes. But, if the autopsy turns up anything suspicious, I’ll come down hard on Mr. Switzer.”

“It sounds as if you’re not satisfied Alan’s death was an accident?”

“No, I’m not. Partly because you’re not. The autopsy could clear things up, one way or the other, but if we find that we have to carry on with the investigation, I would really appreciate your help. You could be my guide to the colony. What you told me about Switzer proved to be very helpful. While it was a frustrating interview, I felt I was able to meet him on his own terms.”

Laura frowned. “I don’t care much for the idea of spying on my friends.”

“I’m not asking you to spy on anyone. It’s more a matter of helping me understand the way these people think.” Karen got up from her chair, walked over to the door, and then turned back with a smile. “Well, I suppose it is a bit more than that. According to Kevin Lavoie you have terrific powers of observation and that could be a tremendous help if this turns out to be a homicide. The public may not be aware of it, but the police do use gifted amateurs to help them solve cases where the circumstances are, shall we say, out of the ordinary. It doesn’t just happen in crime stories. It happens in real life, too.”

“I suppose we could give it a try and see how it works out,” Laura agreed slowly. “But if I begin to feel compromised, I’ll have to back off.” She paused, then added, “Haven’t you forgotten something? I could be a suspect myself. After all, I was the one who found the body.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Karen said as she closed the studio door behind her.

A little taken aback by the policewoman’s parting remark, Laura glanced at her wristwatch, remembering that she was supposed to join Erika for a cup of tea. They alternated between their studios every Friday afternoon. Locking her studio door behind her, she walked down the path and knocked lightly on the boat studio’s door and pushed it open. Erika was seated in front of her computer, deep in thought. Hesitating just inside the door, Laura said, “I don’t want to interrupt if you’re in the middle of something.”

Erika hastily assured her that she had reached a good place to take a break. “I feel like I’m on a bit of a roll. Everything seems to be coming together just the way I want it.”

“It’s a natural high,” agreed Laura as Erika began to make the tea. “I get the same feeling when I finally see how I’m going to approach a painting.”

The two friends sat together on the narrow couch and companionably sipped herb tea. They were both in their mid-thirties, but there the similarity ended. Erika was small and quick, with short-cropped dark hair framing sharp, piquant features, while her brown-haired companion was built on a larger, more Junoesque scale. Erika’s clear blue eyes sparkled with a bright, inquisitive sharpness, while Laura’s brown ones glowed with sympathetic understanding.

The subject of Montrose was raised and quickly dropped as there wasn’t much that could be said about it, and the conversation moved on to more congenial subjects. The easy flow of their talk was suddenly interrupted by a barrage of flashes outside the studio. Laura jumped to her feet and peered out one of the portholes. Unlike conventional portholes, these were large and square— more like windows. The colony was strictly off-limits to the public, but the polite “Please do not trespass” signs failed to inhibit some of the more thoughtless sightseers. Laura swore under her breath as she saw a tour group gesticulating and aiming cameras at the curious sight of an old fishing boat plunked down in a forest hundreds of miles from the nearest ocean.

“It makes me furious,” she muttered. “It’s one thing if somebody doesn’t know any better, but that’s a guided tour and they know damn well they shouldn’t be here. I’m going to see them off.” She brushed past Erika and went out on deck to politely inform the guide he had no business being there.

Laura’s impulsive action didn’t surprise Erika who was familiar with her friend’s protective attitude toward the colony. Laura had been coming to the Leighton Artist Colony for years. Her art had benefited greatly from her frequent stays in the creative atmosphere and she was fiercely resentful of anything that threatened to undermine its unique character. She had also become a sort of den mother to her fellow colonists, showing them how the colony worked and emphasizing that its sole purpose was to encourage their creative talents. Her helpful hints had eased Erika’s entry into the colony and enabled her to settle down to work much more quickly than otherwise might have been the case. In the intervening five weeks, the two women had become fast friends.

“I suppose I shouldn’t let myself get carried away like that.” Laura looked a little sheepish as she stepped back into the cabin. “But this place is important to me.”

“You did the right thing,” Erika assured her as they rinsed the cups and put them away. She glanced at her watch. “If we’re going to be on time for dinner, we better go.”

It was another of the survival tricks she had learned from Laura — be at the Banquet Hall when it opened at five-thirty while the food was still hot, and hadn’t been ruined by sitting too long on a steam table.

As they scrunched along the path, Laura inhaled the thin, clean air that tasted cool somewhere deep in her lungs. Pointing at a clump of trees, she asked, “Do you see the deer?” Now that she knew where to look, Erika spotted the motionless grey shapes, which blended perfectly with the grey bark of the tree trunks. She had long since become accustomed to Laura’s astonishing powers of observation; she was constantly pointing out things that had escaped everyone else’s notice. She had once told Erika that it was because she was a visual artist, adding that visual artists are trained to see the normal, so that anything that fell outside the norm immediately attracted their attention. Unbidden, the thought of how much Geoff would enjoy going on nature walks with the observant Laura flickered through Erika’s mind before she hastily banished it.

As usual, they would both return to work in their studios immediately after dinner.

Refreshed and relaxed after a late night swim and a session in the whirlpool that eased the strain of painting for hours with a tiny brush, Laura walked across the darkened parking lot and through the third floor side entrance of Lloyd Hall. The crime tape had been taken down from the stairwell, but she decided to use the elevator anyway.

She had just hung up her jacket when there was a knock on her door. “Who is it?” she called out.

“Marek Dabrowski. I know it’s late, but could I talk to you for a few minutes?”

As expected, Dabrowski was distraught over the visit of Isabelle’s husband. “He arrives in the morning. What should I do? I can’t bear to see them together.”

“Go away for the weekend. Rent a car and drive up to Jasper, or take a real break and drive out to Vancouver,” she said, adding, “You should see some of the west while you’re here anyway.”

The composer shook his head. “I can’t drive,” he said in his accented English that added the final touch to his continental good looks.

“Then work. Lock yourself in your studio, take your meals there and sleep there. Create a masterpiece out of your emotion. I’ve found work to be the best panacea for a broken heart.”

Marek looked at her with sudden interest. “You? What does the unattainable Ms. Janeway know of a broken heart? I have always thought of you as the one who breaks hearts. Ah, I remember now. Someone said you had once been married.”

“It wasn’t him.” Laura waved a dismissive hand. “Have you and Isabelle given any thought to making your relationship permanent?”

“We’ve talked about it. But it won’t work. It’s her daughter. Isabelle is determined that Jessica will not be the victim of a broken home. Isabelle grew up in a loving home and she wants the same for her daughter. I try to tell her that children are tougher than she thinks, but she remains ...,” Marek took a moment, as he sometimes did, to search for the precisely correct English word, then said with a faint air of triumph, “adamant.”

He turned to go. “I will take your advice and remain in my studio, working on my concerto.”