File M for Murder (11 page)

Laura smiled at the earnest young man. Though she was only about five years older than he, her poise and assurance made her seem even more mature. “Thank you, Toby. I appreciate the vote of confidence. But I don’t have any experience directing.” She paused to smile at the cast. “I’ll stick to coaching. You will all do just fine. When Connor gets crazy like he did today, try to stay out of his way and let him carry on till he gets it out of his system. He’ll get better as the play progresses, I promise you.”

Toby exchanged glances with several other cast members. I could see they weren’t completely convinced, despite the assured tone with which Laura spoke. I couldn’t blame them.

I spoke in an undertone to Laura. “Are you sure about this?”

“I am.” Laura met my gaze and didn’t look away. “I appreciate your concern, but I can handle this. I’ll stay out of Connor’s way. End of problem.”

“He seems fairly determined to stay in your way. What about his assertion that you’re his muse?” I wasn’t convinced by Laura’s words and manner.

Laura frowned. “Trust me on this, Dad. I wasn’t kidding when I said bourbon is his muse. He’ll be so absorbed with the play, he won’t have time for me. He’ll be busy drinking, writing, and smoking too much instead.”

There didn’t seem to be any point in further argument right now. I still had reservations, but I would keep them to myself for the time being. “Then I guess Diesel and I will head back to the archive. Will we see you at dinner tonight?”

“Probably.” Laura pecked me on the cheek before bending to give Diesel one on his nose. “See you men later.” She turned to face her students.

Diesel and I exited the stage and walked up the aisle. When we entered the foyer, I spotted Sarabeth Conley in conversation with the man who’d spoken to Laura and me earlier.

“…to worry about. He doesn’t know anything.” Sarabeth saw me and fell silent. The man turned and glanced at Diesel and me.

I waved a greeting. The man nodded before turning back. Sarabeth nodded as well but did not speak. Now that I saw the two of them together I noticed a definite resemblance. Her brother, perhaps? As a child I had known only Sarabeth, and I knew nothing about her family. He looked young enough to be her son, maybe in his mid-forties, but Sarabeth told me at the party she had no children. Then I recalled her remark about a much younger brother.

Next time I ran into her, I’d ask her about him. With that thought, I pushed the door open, and Diesel and I stepped outside into the afternoon heat.

We were both happy to reach the cool, dim interior of the archive building a quarter of an hour later. I filled Diesel’s water bowl in my office, and he lapped at it thirstily.
Then he hopped onto the windowsill and settled down for a nap.

While I checked e-mail, I revisited the events of the afternoon. I didn’t like Lawton, and I worried that his interest in Laura could cause a serious problem before the semester ended. Despite my daughter’s repeated assurances that she could handle the playwright, like any father concerned with a child’s welfare, I felt I should be able to do something more to ensure her safety and well-being.

But what? Short of working Lawton over with a baseball bat—definitely not my usual style—I felt at a loss. If I played the heavy-handed, interfering father, I risked alienating my daughter. That was the last thing I wanted. After damaging my relationship with my son—though it was thankfully now on the mend—I wanted things with Laura to remain healthy and happy.

I stewed over the issue with little result for two hours before I decided I was accomplishing nothing. My attention to my work was sporadic at best, and my mental gyrations over Laura only exhausted my brain.

“Come on, boy. Let’s go.” I powered down my computer and reached for the cat’s harness and leash.

Diesel chirped as he stretched. Then he hopped to the floor and stood still while I fitted him into the harness.

Soon we headed down the sidewalk toward home. Though it was a few minutes past six, the sun still bore down mercilessly. Trees shaded us much of the way, for which I was thankful. I worried every summer about the hot cement of the sidewalk possibly blistering Diesel’s pads, but so far that hadn’t happened.

In the kitchen we found Justin Wardlaw, my younger boarder, staring into the refrigerator. When Diesel made a beeline for him and warbled, Justin shut the door and
dropped to his knees to hug the cat. “Hey, Mr. Charlie, how’s it going?”

“Fine.” I removed the cat’s leash. “How are your classes?”

Justin glanced up at me as he removed Diesel’s harness. After a difficult first semester at Athena College, he had settled down and performed well. The trials he faced that first semester had matured him. He’d undergone physical change as well, working out and putting on some weight, cutting his dark hair and growing a beard. No longer a gangly, awkward boy, he looked and acted like the man he’d become.

“They’re all good, thanks.” Justin hung the harness on its knob near the back door. Diesel followed him, and Justin scratched behind the cat’s ears. With a thank-you chirp Diesel disappeared into the utility room, home to his litter box.

“And the work-study job?” I went to the refrigerator for the pitcher of chilled water.

“Pretty cool so far.” Justin worked ten hours a week in the History Department. “Dr. Biles asked me to take her notes for her western civ class and put them on the computer.” He laughed. “The pages are all tattered, and the print’s fading. They must be twenty-five years old. But at least I’m getting a good refresher while I work. I’m planning to take her upper-level medieval history class in the spring if I get permission.”

I poured glasses of water for both myself and Justin when he retrieved another glass from the cupboard. “You’ve excelled in your history classes. I’m sure they’ll decide you’re ready to tackle a more advanced course.”

“Thanks.” Justin smiled shyly. “I’m thinking about graduate school in history.”

“Good for you.” Before I could continue, my cell phone
rang. “Excuse me.” I set my glass on the counter, pulled the phone out of my pocket, and glanced at the number. It was Laura.

“Hello, sweetheart. What’s up?” I picked up my glass for another sip of water.

“It’s Connor, Dad.” The near panic in Laura’s voice alerted me. “He’s dead.”

I was so startled by Laura’s words that I spit the mouthful of water back into the glass. My hand shook as I set the glass on the counter.

“Laura, where are you? Are you all right?” I had to get to her as quickly as possible.

Where did I put my keys?

There they were, on their hook by the door.

Laura was crying now. I had to ask her again where she was.

She managed to get out two words: “Connor’s place.”

“I’ll get there as fast I can, sweetheart. Now try to calm down and give me the address.” I jingled the keys in my hand, anxious to get to her.

I heard Laura draw a deep breath, then another. She managed to give me the address, and I recognized the street. She was only about five minutes away. “I’m on the way. Have you called 911 yet?”

“No, but I will now.” Laura sounded slightly stronger. She ended the call.

I turned to Justin. “No time to explain, but I need to go. Diesel, you can’t come with me.”

Diesel meowed, and Justin placed a hand on the cat’s head. “Don’t worry, Mr. Charlie, you go right ahead. I’ll keep Diesel company.”

“Thanks.” Then I was out the back door and scrambling to get into my car.

The address Laura gave me was for an apartment complex on the northeast side of the campus, about three miles away.

I parked in the first open spot I found. As I sprinted toward the complex, I heard a siren in the distance, coming ever closer. I entered through an open archway to an interior courtyard.

My heart pounded hard in my chest as I tried to focus with the late afternoon sun in my eyes. A few feet from me was a sign with apartment numbers affixed to the building. I followed the arrow in the direction indicated, checking the numbers on the doors as I sped by, frantic to reach my daughter.

Apartment 117 was a corner unit at the back, and as I approached it the door swung open. Cell phone clutched in one hand, Laura stumbled toward me. I hugged her tight to my chest.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here.” I repeated those words several times, and Laura grew calmer.

She drew back, and her tear-stained face wrenched my heart. Suddenly she was twelve again, and I wanted to comfort her. But I had to ask one question I neglected to ask earlier. “Honey, did you check him? To be sure, I mean?”

“I freaked out when the 911 operator asked me to do it.”
Laura regarded me with guilt-stricken eyes. “I just couldn’t touch him.”

“I’ll check.” I moved past her to the open door. “Where is he?”

“Right there in the living room.” Laura closed her eyes and began deep-breathing exercises.

I stepped inside, and I gagged at the smell of stale cigarette smoke and a couple of odors that hinted at death. I figured then it was probably too late, but I had to check anyway.

The door opened right into the living room. Connor lay sprawled on a couch a few feet away. His head rested against an arm of the couch, and his mouth stretched wide in an unsettling grimace, as if he died in pain. His bloodshot eyes bulged, and there were splotches of red on his face and neck.
Did some kind of poison cause that?

Could he have killed himself? Maybe his death was the result of some kind of bizarre accident.

Another thought struck me. Those red splotches—weren’t they signs of suffocation?

I stepped close enough to feel for a pulse in his left arm, which dangled off the edge of the couch. His fingers brushed the floor, and I braced myself as I touched the inside of his wrist.

No pulse, skin cool to the touch. I’d seen him on stage at the college only a few hours ago. How long had he been dead?

I stepped back and, as I moved toward the door, I noted certain details about the room.

An empty bourbon bottle sat on the floor by the couch. On the side table nearby an ashtray overflowed with ash and cigarette butts. There was a desk in the corner, its surface littered with pens and scraps of paper. The chair sat with its back against the wall.

At the sound of voices outside I turned and hurried out the door.

Two Athena city police officers stood there with Laura, and they both frowned when they saw me. The older of the two started to speak, but stopped and stared at me.

I recognized him about the time he realized he knew me. “Hello, Officer Williams.” He was one of the policemen who’d responded to the call a few months ago when I’d found another dead body. The younger officer stepped past me and entered the apartment. He looked familiar, too. I thought his name was Grimes.

“Mr. Harris, isn’t it?” Williams didn’t look pleased to see me. “What are you doing here?”

“This is my daughter, Laura. She found the body and called me, and of course I came.” I put an arm around my daughter who was still shivering a little, despite the heat.

“You called your father first, Miss Harris? Not 911?” Williams frowned.

“Yes, sir.” Laura cleared her throat before she continued. “I’m sorry, I was so shaken by what I found I just wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“How long have you been here, Mr. Harris?” Williams focused his laser stare on me.

“Only a few minutes. I got here maybe two minutes ahead of you.”

Grimes popped out of the apartment then. He exchanged a look with Williams, and the two of them stepped to one side to confer in low voices.

I checked my daughter. Her normal color was back, and she was breathing more easily. These were good signs, but I wanted to get her away from here as soon as possible. I knew from experience, however, that we would be here for a while.

As I watched Laura, I saw the tears begin to well in her
eyes. I pulled out my handkerchief and handed it to her, and she dabbed at her eyes. I opened my arms, and she leaned into them, resting her head against my shoulder. “Honey, I’m so sorry,” I whispered. A muffled sob was her response.

“Mr. Harris, I need to ask your daughter some questions since she was first on the scene.” Williams spoke politely, but firmly. I held up a hand to stall him for a moment, and he nodded.

“Laura, do you feel like talking to the officer?” I kept my voice low and gentle. I felt Laura nod against my shoulder. She detached herself from my embrace and scrubbed her face with my handkerchief.

“Sorry, Officer, he was a friend of mine. Finding him like that was a shock.” Laura began with a quaver in her voice but finished sounding stronger.

“Can you tell us who he is, Miss Harris?” Williams regarded Laura with a neutral expression.

“Connor Lawton,” Laura said. “He’s a playwright. He’s—he was—here as writer-in-residence for the year at Athena College.”

Before he could continue his questioning, the clatter of approaching footsteps across the bricked courtyard alerted us to the presence of newcomers. I met the gaze of one of them, and my stomach started to knot up.

Accompanied by two deputies, Kanesha Berry marched toward us. Her grim expression did not bode well for either me or Laura.