Murder as a Fine Art (16 page)

The balcony door slid open and Ingrid came back into the studio. She slid the latch home before turning to look at her mother. She seemed composed, but her pale cheeks were slightly flushed.

“There's a strange man out there, Mummy. A clown.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No. He was juggling some balls in the air. I came right in.”

“You did the right thing, dear.” Her mother gave her a hug.

Laura stormed out the front door, intending to tell John Smith where to get off, but as she expected, there was no sign of him. She would get to him later.

“The squirrel ate all the biscuit,” Ingrid volunteered, as if to ease the situation.

Laura smiled at her. “He loves biscuits. They're better for him than nuts.”

After the remains of the lunch had been packed in Karen's cooler, Laura announced she was “painted out” and would leave with them. Locking the studio behind her, she joined them as they went up the path. “Oh, oh,” she muttered when they rounded a bend and came in sight of the parking lot. John Smith, clad in a rather sinister-looking clown outfit — rakish black fedora, black jacket and pants, his face made up with white greasepaint and green eye shadow — was being interviewed
by a television reporter and cameraman. The media coverage which had reached a fever pitch in the days immediately following Erika's death had dwindled down to the occasional follow-up item. It would flare up again if there were any more sensational developments, such as another death, or an arrest. Lavoie had pleaded with the colonists not to talk to the media, but that of course wouldn't deter John Smith.

John Smith's painted lips broadened in a smile as Laura and her two companions hurried past. Karen frowned when she heard the reporter ask about the possibility of there being a serial killer on the campus. A rumour like that would bring reporters swarming like a plague of locusts. She quickened her pace so that they were practically running by the time they reached her minivan. She barely allowed Ingrid time to say goodbye before hustling her into the passenger seat and closing the door. Leaning against it, she said to Laura, “I hate him knowing I have a daughter.”

“I don't think I'd worry too much about that,” Laura tried to reassure her. “John Smith likes to touch the world, but he doesn't like to be touched back.”

“I just don't like him knowing about Ingrid. It makes me feel kind of vulnerable somehow.”

Laura almost came out with the quote from Francis Bacon—”He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune”—but checked herself in time. The word “hostages” was bound to have painful associations for Karen. Still, if you brought the cynical old essayist into this century by making him gender neutral, he was expressing precisely the same thought as Karen had when she talked about being vulnerable. Everything that happens has happened before and someone had a word for it.

Ingrid blew Laura a kiss as the minivan drove away.

I
t was finished! Laura's excitement mounted as she painted an ear hole on the evilly grinning skull. Stepping back from the canvas, she knew it was good. It was better than good. It was great. She had a feeling it was destined to be an icon. But not yet. She would keep it to herself for a while. It would not travel to New York with her show, although there probably was a market for it there. Later maybe. A sudden shiver ran through her body. She lifted the painting down from the easel and placed it face-first against the wall. With the eerily powerful painting hidden from view, the others in the studio seemed to come back to life. Laura looked at the still lifes and abstracts, vibrant with colour, and smiled. That's what she would paint for the remainder of her stay.

Picking up her flashlight, she switched off the studio lights and went outside into the darkness. She would celebrate with a glass of wine. It was more than a celebration; she needed the wine to calm herself down.

“It's finished,” she whispered to Richard as he held a chair for her. He, Norrington, and Jeremy were sitting around a table, sharing a bottle of wine.

A delighted smile spread over his face. “When?” he asked.

“Maybe you could buy a girl dinner tomorrow night?”

“Done.”

“What are you two whispering about?” asked Jeremy.

“I was just telling him I've finished a painting,” Laura replied blandly.

Jeremy sniffed, but didn't probe further.

He knows there's something between me and Richard, thought Laura. But who cares? We're both adults.

The conversation, like every conversation in the Centre, returned to the subject of the unsolved deaths. “I'm beginning to wonder,” intoned Norrington, “if we don't have a thrill killer in our midst. There seems to be a complete absence of motive in the killings. Except of course, for you and Montrose,” he added with a sideways glance at Jeremy.

“The police are completely satisfied with my alibi.”

“So it would seem. I wonder what it is?”

When Jeremy showed no sign of enlightening them, Laura said, “The police have ruled out a serial killer.”

“I was speaking of a killer who kills for the thrill of it, not a serial killer. As if it were a game.”

“If you're looking for a thrill killer,” Jeremy said, “John Smith's your man. It could be one of his performances.”

“Even he wouldn't go that far,” protested Laura. Jeremy shrugged. “The guy's a sociopath. That's all I know.”

That seemed to bring the conversation about the deaths to a dead end. Norrington turned to Richard. “How is your new masterpiece progressing?”

“Very well, as a matter of fact. As I said on the television program,” Norrington winced, but Richard didn't seem to notice as he went on, “I think my new hero has a number of layers ...”

“So does cardboard,” Norrington interjected.

“I think he has the staying power to sustain a series.”

“A
series
!” Norrington almost squeaked. “May the good Lord have mercy on us!”

Laura put down her empty glass, and stood up. “I'm off. It's been a long day.”

“I'll go with you.” Richard drank the last of his wine and put the empty glass down on the table. Seeing there was some wine left in the bottle Richard had paid for, Norrington and Jeremy elected to stay.

“I honestly don't know how you can stand it.” Laura's face was flushed as she and Richard left the Sally Borden Building.

Richard laughed. “If you think that was bad, you should have heard him earlier. He announced to at least ten people that it would be a boon to the world of literature if my word processor were to self-destruct.”

“What an appalling thing to say!”

“It was pretty extreme, I agree,” Richard shook his head thoughtfully. “There are times when he sounds really bitter. Almost venomous. Tonight was one of them. I can't think why. Lord knows I've never done anything to him. Except buy him drinks. Anyway, it's his problem, not mine.”

Laura slipped her arm through his. “You really don't care what Henry thinks, do you?” When Richard shook his head, she said, “Then I shouldn't let myself get so worked up.”

“Except that it becomes you so.” He held her close and kissed her. “Tomorrow night seems an awfully long time away.”

“Twenty-four little hours, that's all.”

Richard walked her to her door and kissed her goodnight. Before Laura fell asleep, she decided that first thing tomorrow she would check out one of Norrington's books from the library. She might come across some weaknesses and absurdities that Richard could use as ammunition to defend himself with. If Norrington wrote the way he talked, he would be highly susceptible to parody.

The librarian showed Laura where Norrington's books were shelved, and lifted a heavy tome down from the shelf. “This is probably the best one to start with.”

Laura read the title aloud, “
Demystifying Deconstructionism
— not exactly escapist literature, is it?”

The librarian smiled. “It's easier to read than you might think. He's got quite a way with words. When you finish with that one, you can move on to
Decoding Paradise,
” he said as she signed for the book. “It's pretty metaphysical, but it's worth the effort.”

“While I'm here, I'd like to have another look at the tape of Chagall. Could I borrow it?”

“Sure, I'll get it for you.” He went over to a rack of videotapes and brought one back to her. The library was in the basement of Lloyd Hall and had an extensive collection of audiovisual materials and equipment.

Laura switched on a VCR and began to watch the video. The tape was an interview with Marc Chagall shortly before his death and took place in his garden. So many of the great European painters took inspiration
from their gardens, Laura thought. It undoubtedly had to do with colour.

The revered artist's lined face was luminous with pleasure as he talked about
Daphnis & Chloe
, his series of jewel-like lithographs. Laura was so absorbed in his comments it took her a moment to realize something liquid was dribbling down the screen. Ripping off her earphones, she jumped to her feet. Now she heard the soft splat as another drop landed on the TV set and began its downward journey. Slowly, almost reluctantly, her gaze travelled up to the ceiling. A dark crimson stain was spreading across its surface. Another drop fell, then another. A male dancer who had been watching a ballet video on the set next to hers, leapt to one side to get out of range. “Jesus Christ, is that
blood
?” It was as if he had been confronted with a cobra, its evil hood outspread.

“Come over here!” Laura called out to the librarian and the urgency in her voice brought him running from his office. The hushed quiet of the library gave way to an excited babble of voices as staff and visitors dropped whatever they were doing and gathered round the television set. Warning them not to do or touch anything, Laura used the librarian's telephone to call Corporal Lindstrom's extension. To her intense relief, the Mountie answered on the first ring.

“There's something weird going on down here at the library. Can you come over right away?”

“What's happening?”

“It looks like there's blood dripping down from the ceiling.”

“I'm on my way.”

“What's upstairs?” Corporal Lindstrom asked only a few brief moments later. She was gazing up at the dark stain, now considerably larger than when Laura
had first seen it. Laura frowned, trying to recall the layout. A security guard, his walkie-talkie squawking excitedly, answered for her. “A small conference room. It isn't used very much.”

“Do you have a key?” Karen asked. “Let's go then,” she said when he patted the key ring on his belt. Telling the others to stay put, she turned to Laura. “I don't know what we're in for, but I'd like you to come along.”

Laura gestured for her to lead the way and followed her and the guard out of the library and up the circular staircase. Standing to one side of the door, Karen reached out and tried the knob. The door was unlocked. Motioning the others to stand back, she pushed it all the way open. Holding her revolver in a two-handed grip, she sprang into the room. Sweeping the gun in a slow arc, she cautiously looked around. The walls were paneled and there were no closets or other places to hide. After checking behind the door, she waved at her two companions to join her.

“This looks like some of John Smith's work,” Laura said as she gazed down at the floor.

“You're sure?” asked Karen.

“I can't think of anyone else who would pull a stunt like this.”

“Jesus Christ!” the security guard said as they stared at the mess on the floor — a large pool of viscous red fluid, flecked with globules of white matter.

“Is that white stuff what I think it is?” asked Karen.

“It looks like semen to me,” replied Laura, adding dryly, “That will be John Smith's personal contribution.”

“Is it really blood?” The security guard looked as if he wanted to bolt out of the room. How people's attitude to the life-giving fluid had changed, Laura thought.

“It certainly looks and smells like blood all right. But I very much doubt it's human blood,” replied
Laura. She pointed to the guard's walkie-talkie. “Shouldn't Mr. Lavoie know about this?”

The guard quickly pressed the switch and began to talk.

“Blood and semen,” said Laura. “In this, the age of AIDS, the message is rather clear, don't you think?”

“And gross,” muttered Karen.

When Lavoie joined them, they went back downstairs to the library. “What I can't understand,” he said, staring up at the library ceiling as if wondering how much it would cost to repair the damage, “is how so much seeped through. That conference room has a hardwood floor.”

“I imagine John Smith found a way to help that along.” Laura said. “When that mess is cleaned up, I think you'll find a few tiny holes drilled in the floor. Having the blood drip through the ceiling would be part of the performance. And so would the reaction of those who saw it.” As she spoke, Laura's gaze was roving around the library. “There it is,” she said, pointing with her finger. “Over there on top of that bookcase. I knew it had to be here somewhere.”

The video camera was wedged between some books so that it was completely hidden, except for the lens. Standing on a chair, Laura squinted into the eyepiece. “He's got a nice wide field of view. It takes in the entire area where people sit to watch the VCR screens. I'm not sure how I feel about appearing in one of John Smith's feature performances,” she added as she stepped down.

With Corporal Lindstrom's permission, the librarian moved the television set and placed a pail under the spot where the blood was dripping down. The sweetish
smell of blood — sheep's blood, as it later turned out to be — hung in the air. “What do you want to do about this?” the police officer asked Lavoie.