Read Murder as a Fine Art for Free Online Page B

action,” she wrote, but this time he had succeeded in creating a truly sympathetic protagonist. The fictional James Hunt made mistakes, and had his share of human frailties, including a tendency to fall into jealous sulks. But he soldiered gamely on, and the reader knew he would prevail in the end.
    After reading the part about the main character, Richard jumped up from his chair and walked over to the window. The Evamy Studio, named after the late Calgary architect who had designed it, boasted the mostspectacular view in the colony — a tall, floor-to-ceiling window looking out on a cathedral aisle of pines framing the jagged peak of Mount Rundle, soaring above the tree line. But today Richard was oblivious to its grandeur; the editor’s reaction to his new hero exactly mirrored his own thoughts. Maybe James Hunt deserved his own series; thrillers set in exotic parts of the globe featuring the likeable James Hunt with his baggage of human foibles and strengths. Richard’s pulse quickened as he realized that the new book might lead to a television series. Having his stories and characters come to life on the screen had always been one of his greatest ambitions, but it had eluded him up to now. It meant that the hero could not get entangled in any long-term romantic attachments. But that was no problem. The female lead could always be killed off at the end of the book. Or, better yet, she could turn out to be the villain.
    Exhilarated by the prospect of achieving the breakthrough he had always sought, Richard returned to his desk. As he expected, Thea’s editorial changes were a lot less drastic than she seemed to think. From the tone of her letter one would think she was taking enormous liberties with his precious prose, whereas in reality her notations were little more than copy editing; substituting a word here, eliminating one there. But she liked James Hunt! That was the important part. Richard’s contented smile deepened as he read.
    Erika’s stomach rumbled noisily, reminding her that, almost unheard of for her, she had forgotten to eat her lunch. She switched off the computer and shrugged into her jacket. She would eat out on the deck.
    Winter was beginning to relax its grip on the mountains. The light morning snowfall had stoppedand the sun had come out, melting the snow into little puddles on the path. Unzipping her jacket, Erika spread out the abundant lunch the kitchen staff, knowing her remarkable appetite, had packed. It was the shadow that made her look up. John Smith’s bare feet made no sound as he mounted the solid plank steps, and Erika suddenly found herself staring directly at his genitalia. He stepped back several paces and said, “Hello, Erika,” his voice echoing hollowly inside the donkey mask, which was all he was wearing. John Smith’s sexuality might be problematical, but physically, he was undeniably a man, as his present costume, or lack of it, made abundantly clear.
    â€œHello yourself, John Smith,” she replied coolly. “Aren’t you rushing the season a bit?”
    He shrugged to indicate her question didn’t deserve a reply, then brought his right hand out from behind his back. “Look what I found in the woods. Do you know what it is?”
    Erika stared at the dead bird with distaste. “As it happens, I do,” she replied. Geoff was an avid birder and his interest had awakened her own. One of her first purchases in Banff had been a copy of
Birds of the Canadian Rockies.
”It’s a nutcracker. Clark’s nutcracker to be precise.”
    â€œThat’s right,” John Smith’s muffled voice sounded somewhat disappointed. “Do you know what a nut-cracker does?” As he spoke he grabbed his scrotum with his free hand and began to squeeze. Horrified, Erika saw the tendons on the back of his hand standing out as he increased the pressure. She turned away and stared calmly into the distance.
    His fingers