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

programs. The presence of both Henry Norrington and Richard Madrin on the campus at the same time was a natural. Norrington, as well as being the author of several widely acclaimed books on philosophy, was also a noted critic and a frequent, and much sought after, guest on television talk shows. Getting the famous guru as a visiting lecturer had been a real coup for the Centre. As part of the inducement for him to come, he had been assigned a studio in the colony — the award winning chapel-like studio designed by Calgary architect Fred Valentine, with its sloping roof and glassed-in porch. The consensus in the colony was that Norrington, with his sarcastic wit and biting contempt for the kind of books Richard wrote, would make mincemeat out of the thriller writer. But Laura wasn’t so sure. Besides the kind of good looks that the camera would love, Richard had an easy-going self-confidence that might serve to blunt Norrington’s barbs.
    Now Norrington was telling Richard, in tones of one conferring a signal honour, that he was going to use one of Richard’s books in his creative writing class.
    â€œOh?” Surprised and pleased, Richard asked, “Which one?”
    Norrington shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I only managed to get halfway through one of them before giving up. But that told me all I needed to know. Any one of your books will serve as a perfect example of what and how not to write.”
    Norrington’s mocking jest brought a sycophantic titter from one of the students, but the rest of his listeners sat in stony silence.
    â€œRichard’s books are enjoyed by a great many people,” Laura said breaking the embarrassed silence.
    â€œI appreciate your coming to my defence, Laura, but it’s quite all right.” Richard glanced at Norrington with a look that was almost amused. “Henry’s just jealous that my books sell so much better than his.”
    This sally brought a gasp of outrage from Norrington, but a spluttered “Nonsense!” was the only reply he could muster.
    This was the stuff of legend and Norrington’s students were eating it up. But the undercurrent of animosity between the two men made Laura uncomfortable. She finished her glass of wine and got to her feet. Smothering a yawn, Richard said he would walk back to the residence with her. Outside the building, he paused to gaze almost reverently up at the night sky, the moon riding high among the stars. The air was so crisp and clear that the distant stars seemed almost to crackle. The eerie, high-pitched howl of a coyote floated down from somewhere higher up Tunnel Mountain.
    â€œI love that sound,” Richard murmured. “It’s so wild and free.”
    â€œIt sends chills up and down my spine, too,” Laura agreed. “But it also reminds me of the time I put a coyote in a painting. Like everybody else I painted it sitting on its haunches and baying at the moon. A couple of months after the painting had been sold, I received a stern letter from a field naturalist saying that when coyotes howled they stood with all four feet planted on the ground.”
    â€œDid you reply?”
    â€œOh, yes. I wrote him a polite note thanking him for the information, but telling him that in my paintings, coyotes were free to do whatever they liked.” She touched his arm. “Let’s walk down the path. This night is too beautiful to waste!”
    Moments later as they rounded a turn in the path they saw Veronica Phillips standing in front of Marek Dabrowski’s studio.
    â€œOh, no,” Laura exclaimed softly.
    Veronica was listening so intently to the sounds filtering through the studio walls that she started visibly as the two approached. She held a finger to her lips until the music rose to a thundering crescendo then suddenly faltered to a halt. She turned to them with shining eyes. “It’s going to be wonderful! He’s writing it in C-major. It’s