The Eye of the Beholder Page 22

“Yep. And you are?”

  “My name is Randy Craig. I had an invitation from Professor Nettles to look around the studio, and thought I would take her up on it.”

  He seemed to take his level of antagonism down a notch or two at the mention of Professor Nettles. Here was someone who had been questioned recently by the police, after all. He probably had not enjoyed talking with Iain and Steve, and I was getting the brunt of that.

  “Are you a sculptor?”

  “Not at all. I’m an English lecturer over at Grant MacEwan.”

  “And why do you want to know about art studios? Are you teaching some story on artists?”

  “Have you read My Name is Asher Lev?” I asked, happy to be offered this alibi, and proffering the first art-focused title that sprang to mind. “I would like to see how much art students today might identify with that novel, which I found quite profound when I was in university.”

  He shook his head.

  “Never heard of it.”

  “I think I’ve seen your work displayed in a gallery on 124th Street, haven’t I?” I asked, aiming to change the subject and with any luck get out of the corner I’d hemmed myself into, literally and figuratively.

  “Last term? Yes, we had a student show at Abernathy’s. You saw that? What did you think of it?”

  “The juxtaposition of the reality of the hearts and other organs, in the hands of what were so obviously mannequins, really stuck with me. It made me think of questions of what makes us human or real.”

  The sun broke out on his face as he smiled, and I could see why Kristin Perry could have considered having an affair with this man.

  “That’s exactly what I was going for. You’ve got a keen eye. Maybe it’s because you look for symbols in literature so you’re tuned to looking for them in art?”

  “Maybe. When you think about symbols in art, though, do you use them the same way as they are used in literature, to magnify a concept that is being played out in the actions of the plot? Or do you use them as a code for special viewers only, like in the Reformation or other times of upheaval?”

  I was trying to ease my way closer to the window so that I could stroll past the bulk of Austin Stauffer without seeming to be running away.

  “For instance,” I said, pointing to the jagged to smooth metal statue back toward the larger part of the room, “is that combination of harsh angles and smooth sine waves symbolic of warring elements in the same psyche? Or is it meant to indicate an argument between two people? Or is it a vision of youth to old age? Or is it supposed to mean anything beyond angle and wave?”

  “Symbols cover a lot of ground, artistically,” Austin replied. I think you need to talk to an art historian rather than a working artist to really get a bead on things. Sometimes it isn’t until a critic begins to write about a work, or a curator assembles an exhibit, that elements of a piece start to be understood.”

  We were now walking together back toward the doors of the studio, and I wasn’t sure whether I was escaping or being herded. Whatever the case, I was relieved.

  “So a work of art can’t exist on its own, out of an external context. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “There will always be references and predictions, sure.”

  “And do you find yourself influenced by other art you see?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, say your trip to Mexico. Did seeing all the indigenous art, or the revolutionary paintings, or murals, influence your present work? There is so much talk of appropriation these days. It makes me wonder if somehow we’re ignoring just how much we’re influenced by the world around us and our experiences.”

  “My trip to Mexico?”

  The belligerence in his voice was back. I stumbled over my next few words, trying to recover equilibrium.

  “Yes, didn’t you say you had been to Mexico?”

  “I don’t think I mentioned it, no.”

  “Ha, maybe it’s just that having been recently myself, I think everyone must have gone to Mexico! I’m sorry. That must have been confusing for you.”

  “Actually, we were in Mexico recently, my wife and I. During Reading Week.”

  “That’s when I was there, too. On my honeymoon,” I said, flashing my ring at him in some odd Victorian throwback, as if I was going to drop my handkerchief, or get him to kiss my hand.

  “Congratulations. Or do you not say that to women? I forget the convention.”

  “I’ll take it. I feel pretty lucky.”

  “Anyhow, your question about appropriation is an interesting one. And I’m betting there isn’t an artist or writer out there who isn’t thinking about it these days with so many issues in the news. We did see a lot of art in Mexico, and I liked some of the more stylized paintings, but the sculpture didn’t do all that much for me, except for the older ones on the Malecon over in Puerto Vallarta. I really dug those little nuns on the ladder.”

  “Oh, so did I. The Sergio Bustamante ones. I went to his gallery, too.”

  “We lost a fellow art student down there, you know. She was killed on the beach.” Stauffer seemed like he was baiting me, trying to determine just how much I knew. Or maybe it was my guilty conscience making me think that. I figured I’d better stay on the right side of the truth.

  “Yes, I did know that.”

  “Is that why you’re here poking around? Are you with the police? They questioned me when we got home.”

  “I’m not with the police. Just sad and curious, I guess. I think I saw her.”

  “Kristin? Where? Was she with someone? Did she look scared?”

  His concern was obvious. Whether or not they really had been intimate while he and his wife were taking a break, Austin Stauffer had obviously cared for Kristin. I wondered if he was a good enough actor to put on this sort of show for me. I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t going to bet my life on it.

  “The police think she had already been dead some hours before I spotted her. I just thought she was sun tanning.”

  “You saw her body?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.” I suddenly heard myself from his point of view, how callous it must sound to be speaking of his friend as a corpse, not a person.

  “That’s my only connection to the police. I promise.”

  He slumped a bit, but then seemed to realize I was still standing there. I figured I had better make my goodbyes before I got into anything stickier about why I was there asking questions.

  “Well, thank you again for the discussion. This has been very interesting.”

  “No problem.” Although he regained an approximation of his friendly guise, which had appeared when I had seemed to get his work, I had a sense that it was a mask, and that I hadn’t yet seen the real face of Austin Stauffer. I did feel for sure, though, that I was really not welcome in that studio.

  No problem for me. As I exited through the high studio doors, I felt as if I had somehow escaped something I didn’t want to name.

  31

  The painting studios were on the second floor, and there was far more activity happening there. I explained to one of the first young women I met that I was there at the invitation of Professor Briar Nettles and there didn’t seem to be any problem with me wandering through a similarly laid out room, though it was broken into much more segmented areas.

  There was a wall midway on which hung myriad canvases of all sizes, painted by a variety of hands. I wandered near to it, to examine them. There were a couple that looked familiar, and I noted with a frisson of excitement that the initials K.P. were painted in white in the right lower corner. These had to be Kristin’s work.

  I wondered how much more of her student work was in this building, and how much was still with her roommates, Andrea and Jeannie. And, I wondered, had Steve and Iain catalogued it all? And who would be the ultimate owner of her work? Did artwork automati
cally increase in value when the artist died, even if it was a student artist? Or did the artist have to slice off an ear first?

  All the painters I saw around me had both their ears. In fact, some of them were sporting interesting earrings or extended holes in their ears. To them, anything was a canvas, I guess.

  I took a couple of covert shots of Kristin’s paintings, and then headed out of the studio. It was almost one o’clock, and while Denise might still be on campus, it felt like a long way down HUB through to the Humanities building when I could head home through the Law Building pedway and the student housing village.

  As I walked the quiet corridors, past the musicology centre and through the double doors to the Law Building, the back of my neck began to prickle, and I got the sense that someone was watching or following me. I couldn’t hear anyone else’s footsteps. I couldn’t even really hear my own footsteps, since I was wearing rubber-soled shoes.

  I decided to pick up the pace a bit, so I could get to where other people might be around. There was no one in the halls of Law, nor in the first block of housing for students, though why there should be on a summer afternoon, I wasn’t sure. The university did seem to settle into a somnolence that I usually found reinvigorating, but at the moment found quite eerie.

  Walking down the middle of the student housing with hundreds of windows looking out at me, I couldn’t stop and turn around to see if there really was someone. It was the middle of the day. I would look like an idiot if there really was someone there, innocuously walking in the same direction I was. I was looking right then left before crossing the street, because even if it was a one-way, cyclists in this city didn’t seem to think traffic rules pertained to them, when a hand reached out and grabbed my elbow.

  I screamed.

  The hand pulled away sharply, and behind me Briar Nettles gave a startled little shout, too.

  “Oh god, I’m sorry to have scared you. I was trying to get your attention without causing a scene.” She laughed. “So that went well.”

  I laughed, too, still shaken and a little nervous. Even though we were out in the open, there was no one on the quiet street, and the heavy summer air made the trees feel even denser around us.

  “I didn’t want to call out to you while we were passing the student residences, because I know a lot of students live there and might recognize my voice, and I don’t think either of us want that much focus on us at the moment.”

  She did have a distinctive voice, though I wasn’t totally sure what she meant by ‘focus.’

  “Are a lot of art students in residence here?” For some reason, I had sort of assumed they’d be doubled up in basement suites, saving money for Gauloises and canvases. They were probably all spending their allowances on gym memberships.

  “Quite a few. The proximity to the studio from here attracts them, and the high windows allows for good sketching at home. I know of at least three who are in that building alone.” She pointed to the complex of student apartments next to the historic Emily Murphy house a few doors from where we stood.

  “Sorry I screamed. I was sort of caught up in my own head.” That wasn’t true, but I couldn’t admit that I was scared that someone was following me and I hadn’t turned to confront them.

  “Isn’t that the curse of the artist and academic?” Briar laughed. “We walk through life seeing other worlds.”

  I had the feeling she was quoting someone I was supposed to know. I just nodded and smiled, trying to fake my way through this awkward conversation.

  “I heard you were talking with Austin just now. I ran into him in the hallway just after, and he mentioned it. Then I caught sight of you in the foyer on the second floor as I was about to unlock my office door, so I thought I would catch you up and touch base. You have a very long stride.”

  I looked down at her petite feet in their high-wedged shoes, and considered that there was more weight to this conversation than Briar Nettles was willing to admit.

  “The police are going to be back, aren’t they? Talking to all the students, taking up studio time?”

  “A girl was killed,” I said. “These things happen until they have all the answers they need.”

  “But she was killed in Mexico. Surely that all has nothing to do with us here.”

  “Several people she knew were there at the same time, along with their significant others. And she was killed with art motifs in mind, albeit a few of them seemingly Mexican. Why would a Mexican national pick her out of thousands to coincidentally create a still life on the sand? It only makes sense if it was someone from here who followed her down, or lured her down.”

  “Lured her? You think she took the trip to meet up with someone in order to be killed?”

  “Not to be killed, but to connect, sure. Or even to create an art installation. What if she didn’t realize she was going to be killed? What if she thought she was participating in something like when Tilda Swinton slept in the art gallery?” I was getting excited with this train of thought. I wanted to get away from Briar Nettles and text Steve.

  Briar Nettles looked startled. The idea had bizarre merit with her, too, I could tell.

  “Or maybe it was her idea, but someone took control of the situation?” she pondered.

  “Whatever the case, it all keeps pointing back to art, and, unfortunately, to your department.”

  “I can see that now.” She shrugged, and held out her hand to shake. “I’m sorry to have startled you again. Let me know what I can do to help. This can’t be allowed to be forgotten.”

  I watched her turn and walk back toward the university buildings.

  32

  Steve was interested in my talk with Austin Stauffer but still reamed me out for going into a situation like that alone.

  “There is a murderer out there, you know. One of the people you flit around talking to is going to decide that shutting you up might be healthier for them.”

  “But he wouldn’t have talked to one of you in uniform like he talked to me.”

  “True, but we’re not that much further ahead, except that we know he still seems to have carried a torch for Kristin.”

  “And there’s the whole idea of murder as art installation, that Kristin was complicit in. I wouldn’t have got there without talking to him and Briar.”

  “That sounded like a weird conversation for sure. Why would she follow you so far out of her way to talk to you? Why wouldn’t she want to be seen talking to you?”

  “Do you suspect her? I don’t think she was even in Mexico.”

  “As far as we know. She may have another name and passport. This might be her artist’s pseudonym. After all, it’s like it came out of a fairytale, right? It’s not like it even sounds like a real name.”

  He made a note to ask Iain to check the plane manifests for Briar and any name that sounded like it might connect.

  “If I was creating a pseudonym, it would be nothing like my real name.”

  “And that is how you’d be caught out. Good criminals know to make their names similar enough that they will respond naturally when someone calls out. The initials will be the same, or the beginning of the name will sound the same. You, for instance, could be Rachel or Rhonda. Rhonda Carmichael, international spy. I could be Sean Bean or Simon Le Bon.”

  “I think those are already taken. Or do you think it would cement the name in peoples’ minds if you were constantly saying, No, I’m the other Duran.”

  Steve laughed and reached over to tickle me. By this time we were lying side by side in bed, mostly staring at the ceiling, but holding hands.

  “I see what you mean, Simon. But how are we going to prove that some Brittany Nickerson who went to Puerto Vallarta is really our Briar Nettles?”

  “Good old policework, that’s how. You pull the manifest, you see if it was a charter, and work backward to the ticket to find out if there was
a connection to a particular hotel. Then we send one of Roberto’s men over to the hotel with a photograph.”

  “That seems like a lot of work.”

  “Police work is a lot of work. That’s why in England they refer to cops as plods, I think. One step in front of the other. If you don’t arrive at the crime scene and find the perpetrator standing there with a slick knife over the body, then you know it’s going to be a long haul.”

  “It’s that whole twenty-four hours thing, isn’t it?”

  “You mean, if we haven’t arrested someone by then, then it will be unsolved forever? That’s not quite accurate, as you may notice from statistics.”

  “But that first amount of time indicates that it is a slamdunk, obvious crime, and you can tell immediately who the killer is.”

  “That’s about right, I guess.”

  “And it’s been months since our honeymoon.”

  “Are you saying the honeymoon is over?” Steve’s mock pain made me laugh. “Don’t worry, Randy. We’ll catch whoever did this. The odds are in our favour. The number of Edmontonians who had a connection to her who were in Mexico at the same time is not an infinite number. We just have to make a case for the right one.”

  “Well, that sounds simple when you say it like that.”

  Steve yawned, and it made me yawn. I checked the alarm clock to realize it was past eleven. I had to teach the next day, and of course, Steve had to keep Edmonton safe and free. I reached over to turn off my sidelight, and Steve did the same on his side of the bed.

  “I mean it, though, Randy. Someone out there doesn’t want you showing up and nosing about. Please promise you’ll be careful.”

  “Of course I will. Don’t worry.”

  I rolled over, thinking he didn’t need to know about my plans, which would likely come to nothing. Maybe I would tell him in the morning, or maybe not. There was time enough to talk about it if something panned out.

  We woke at the same time the next morning, and I padded out to put the coffee on while Steve had the first shower. By the time we were clean, dressed, and fed, it was time for Steve to leave for work. I kissed him and handed him his lunch bag, feeling like someone posing for a Norman Rockwell painting. This buying into the monogamous, matrimonial hegemony was so easy to do, given that so much of our culture reflected it back at us. It was more of a wonder that I had known how to be a single woman operating on my own for so long. After all, there was only so much tossing of one’s beret, à la Mary Tyler Moore, that one could fit into one’s daily routine.