Free Murder as a Fine Art by John Ballem Page A

colony was the place for new beginnings. Laura checked her watch. There was plenty of time for a swim before the pool closed.
    The pool, along with other athletic facilities, was in the Sally Borden Building — the Banff Centre, with its world-wide reputation and glamorous setting, attracts many benefactors and honours the most generous of them by naming buildings, theatres, and halls after them. Laura recognized the Tchaikovsky Second Piano Concerto thundering down from the speakers as she emerged from the locker room. That meant Michel was the lifeguard on duty — he had a passion for Tchaikovsky, particularly the three concertos, and liked to turn the volume up late at night when the pool was mostly deserted. Light from a late-rising moon streamed in through the glass roof.
    Laura settled into the whirlpool with a grateful sigh, letting the powerful water jets work their wonders with her fatigued painting muscles. Then she dove, with a considerable splash, into the pool. At night she liked to swim on her back, looking up at her reflection in the sloping glass roof. By some trick of light, any part of a swimmer’s skin that was not completely submerged, turned black. It was like swimming while wearing a black mask. The illusion never failed to delight her, and she was quite happy not knowing its cause.
    Climbing out of the pool, she exchanged a few words with Michel, a graduate music student who was studying the violin, and continued on to the women’s locker room to change. When she came out, Richard was standing at the counter getting a towel and locker key from the attendant. Impulsively, she went up to him, kissed him lightly on the lips, and whispered, “Thanks for today, and good luck tomorrow.”
    Startled, he reached for her. But he was too late. She slipped out of his grasp and ran laughing up the stairs.

chapter five
    T he TV lounge on the third floor of Lloyd Hall was rapidly filling up as colonists and art students streamed in just before ten o’clock on the following night. Marek Dabrowski was waiting for Laura and intercepted her as she was about to enter the TV room. Erika, who had ridden down in the elevator with her, said she would save Laura a seat. Instinctively, Laura looked around for Isabelle Ross but there was no sign of her. Her husband and daughter had left for home that morning, and, according to the grapevine, Dennis Ross had the look of a man in shock.
    Drawing Laura to one side, Marek said, “Since you were the one who alerted me to what Eckart was up to, I think you should know what I have decided to do.”
    He paused as if expecting Laura to say something. When she didn’t, he went on, “I called him down to my studio and told him that I had decided not to report him, much as he deserved it. I also told him that Iwould be monitoring everything he published and that if I heard so much as a single bar of my music in one of his compositions, I would... blow the whistle.” It was obvious from the careful way he pronounced it that Marek had learned the idiomatic phrase especially for the occasion.
    â€œI think you made the right decision.” Inwardly, Laura was relieved. If Marek had decided to report Eckart to the chair of the music department, she would inevitably have been drawn into the affair in the role of a corroborating witness. “I trust Carl was properly grateful?”
    â€œGrateful? No, I wouldn’t say he was grateful. At first, when he didn’t know what I was going to do, he was humble, almost servile. When he knew he was off the...”
    â€œHook,” supplied Laura, and Marek went on, “Thank you. I always have trouble with your English idioms, much as I enjoy them.” He paused and then said with a frown, “When Eckart realized I was not going to report him, he became his usual belligerent self again. It was as if the whole thing was somehow my fault.”
    â€œHey, you two.” Erika was waving at