“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?