Murder as a Fine Art

MURDER AS A
FINE ART

For
Alexis Grace
and
Lliam

John Ballem

A Castle Street Mystery

Copyright © John Ballem, 2002

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency.

Editor: Marc Côté
Copy-Editor: Natalie Barrington
Design: Bruna Brunelli
Printer: Webcom

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

Ballem, John
    Murder as a fine art

“A Castle Street M ystery.”
ISBN 1-55002-385-3

I. Title.

1     2     3     4     5       06     05     04     03     02

We acknowledge the support of the
Canada Council for the Arts
and the
Ontario Arts Council
for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the
Government of Canada
through the
Book Publishing Industry Development Program
and
The Association for the Export of Canadian Books
, and the
Government of Ontario
through the
Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit
program.

Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.

J. Kirk Howard, President

All the characters in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to actual people is purely coincidental.

Printed and bound in Canada.
Printed on recycled paper.

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MURDER AS A
FINE ART

“… behold a pale horse, and its
rider's name was Death …”

Revelation 6

H
igh in the Canadian Rockies is a place like no other — eight rustic studios set in the midst of a dense forest of lodge pole pines. Artists, writers, painters, and composers from all over the world flock to this mountain retreat to work on their art in individual studios, free from the distractions of the outside world.

The resort town of Banff, slightly more than an hour's drive from the city of Calgary, is located in the beautiful Bow River Valley at an altitude of 4,500 feet. Surrounded by the towering and jagged peaks of Mount Rundle, Sulphur Mountain, Cascade Mountain, and Mount Norquay, it is an irresistible lure for tourists, skiers, and mountaineers. Although the town itself is small, with a permanent population of only 7,000, it is by far the largest settlement in the Banff National Park, a 2,300 square mile nature preserve. The small number of permanent residents is dwarfed by the five million visitors who stream through the park gates every year.

Overlooking the town of Banff, and facing the massive rock ramparts of Mount Rundle, the Banff Centre of Fine Arts is one of Canada's most important cultural institutions, providing instruction and training to aspiring artists in their various disciplines. Under the umbrella of the Banff Centre is the Leighton Artist Colony, which caters only to established artists with a proven track record, and offers no instruction, but rather an opportunity to work undisturbed in a setting of inspiring beauty.

As a writer, I have had the benefit of several stays in the colony, and know full well just how creative an environment it is. It is also a closed world, where you are thrown into the company, for weeks or months, of fellow artists from many different countries and cultures. Ideas flow freely at mealtimes and at get togethers in the lounge. In fact, this exchange of ideas and experiences is one of the great benefits of colony life. Nor, let it be said, do these exchanges always remain on the philosophical level. The artists come to the colony on their own, and find themselves in one of the world's most romantic settings and in the company of attractive and creative companions. It is not surprising that relationships spring up, to flower and usually to die, when the lovers' stay is over.

Add to this the fact that the artists are established, well known, and come to the colony with large reputations and, in many cases, even larger egos. It's a heady mix—one that sets the stage for murder.

A
lan 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.