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,