Murder as a Fine Art Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 featureRichard 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?
    She took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes, and got up from the chair. She would draft the section to see what it looked like. To see whether it would turn out to be as sensational as she thought. Writing a draft didn’t mean she was committed to using it, but she wouldn’t do it today. She’d let it simmer in her subconscious while she worked on another, completely innocuous chapter. She paused for a moment, knowing that the bit about the subconscious was just an excuse to postpone putting the actual words down on paper. Erika wondered why she was so reluctant to start. It was because the whole thing was so unbelievably incredible. Incredible but true, she added to herself.
    Equally incredible was the way in which her excitement over her discovery and the fact that her book was nearing completion had distanced her from Geoff. Until she had come to this remote and magical place, she never would have believed that she could think ofGeoff Hamilton without breaking up inside. After three years of an on-again, off-again relationship, he had decided to remain in his loveless marriage with two teenage children. A few days ago, he had called from New York saying he realized that he had made a mistake and wanting to come to Banff. She had astonished herself by telling him that she didn’t want to see him. Not until her stay at the Centre was over, at least. That shocked him, as she knew it would. She had been so devastated when he told her he was ending the affair that