Murder as a Fine Art by John Ballem Read Free Book Online

relaxed their pressure and he stood there, still holding the carcass of the handsome grey and black bird in his hand.
    â€œFinished?” she asked coolly. She heard the hiss of his indrawn breath as he stomped off.
    â€œOh, no!” Erika groaned aloud as she saw Isabelle leading her family down the path. Isabelle was giving them a tour of the colony and they were on a collision course with the naked John Smith who was in a sulk and liable to do anything. It would have been funny except for the little girl. But the child’s presence must have inhibited even John Smith, for he turned aside and melted into the woods. Isabelle’s husband, his hand covering his daughter’s eyes, turned and stared disbelievingly after the apparition. He still looked shaken as they accepted Erika’s invitation and joined her on the deck.
    â€œI guess one has to be prepared for anything around an art colony,” he said with a game smile as Isabelle introduced him. His name was Dennis, and the dark-haired little beauty was Jessica. The child’s eyes were wide with unasked questions as she smiled shyly at Erika.
    â€œJohn Smith is a little extreme, even for an art colony,” Erika said. “I think he’s put years on poor Kevin’s life. Kevin Lavoie is the colony coordinator,” she explained to Dennis.
    â€œI’ve met him,” he murmured noncommittally. And probably got a pretty cool reception, thought Erika. Kevin did not approve of visitors. He thought they were disruptive of colony life.
    Saying, “We mustn’t keep you from your writing,” Isabelle stood up to leave the moment Erika finished her dessert, a generous slice of apple pie and a chunk of cheddar cheese.
    Dennis blinked, then scrambled hastily to his feet. “I must say you’re a remarkably dedicated bunch around here. I can scarcely persuade Isabelle to have dinner in town tonight with me and Jessica.”
    â€œI already explained it to you, Dennis,” she said, the strain in Isabelle’s voice was evident, and Erika’s heart went out to her. “I’m way behind my schedule. I’ve still got two Schubert sonatas to add to my repertoire before I leave here. And I have a recording session in Chicago the third week of May.”
    â€œOur time here is a rare and wonderful chance for us to concentrate on our work free of distractions from the outside world,” Erika said, unsure this was the most tactful way of putting it. But perhaps it would help the doctor understand why the family reunion was not turning out to be the joyous event he undoubtedly had anticipated.
    Richard’s euphoria over his editor’s comments served him well that night. Henry Norrington was holding court in the lounge of the Sally Borden Building to an audience consisting of several of his graduate students and a few members of the colony. They were grouped around two tables that had been pulled together in the far end of the lounge. The celebrated writer-cum-lecturer, fuelled with a couple of after-dinner cognacs, was in fine acerbic form as he held forth on the subject of modern fiction.
    â€œSounds like you’re practicing for our television show,” laughed Richard when Norrington came to the end of a lengthy and perceptive discourse on the unlikely, but intriguing, parallels between the Argentinean novelist Manuel Garcia, and the American Roger Newbury.
    Norrington’s large nose swung majestically in Richard’s direction. “I’m scarcely in need of practice for that,” he sniffed.
    It was only two days before the television “debate” between Norrington and Richard Madrin was scheduled to air. It was a much-anticipated event and one of themain topics of conversation in the colony. An Edmonton station, supported by public funds and with a mandate to spread culture throughout the province, frequently invited various luminaries who visited the Banff Centre to appear on its