“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,”