File M For Murder

EIGHT

Two weeks sped by. Laura, increasingly anxious over preparations for her classes, spent most of her time holed up in her room or in her campus office. When I did manage to catch her long enough for a conversation, she alternated between excitement and dread. Not unlike her general state before opening night of all her high school and college performances, I recalled.

She made no mention of either Connor Lawton or Damitra Vane during those brief talks. I wasn’t sure whether she was hiding things from me, or whether my plea to Kanesha Berry for semiofficial intimidation paid off.

I’d finally caught up with the elusive chief deputy midweek. She gave no reason for taking so long to return my calls, and I didn’t ask. I knew better. Instead I explained the situation and asked her to do what she could to keep the conflict from escalating. She said she’d talk to Connor and Damitra, and with that I had to be content.

This morning, the second Monday of the semester, Laura, Diesel, and I breakfasted together. The rest of the household—Sean, Stewart, Dante, and Justin—had yet to put in an appearance. My housekeeper, Azalea Berry, stood at the stove, and the odor of hotcakes and bacon perfumed the air.

Diesel sat by my chair, nose aquiver, hoping for tidbits. He was as fond of pancakes and bacon as I was. I tried to keep the human food to a minimum, but that adorable face with its imploring eyes was difficult to resist. Only Azalea remained immune from such appeals.

Laura sipped at her coffee. “Would you like to come and watch us workshopping the play, Dad?”

“I’d love to.” I added half-and-half to my cup, along with a couple of packets of artificial sweetener. “I’ve never seen a play being workshopped before. Are you sure it will be all right?” I didn’t want any hassle from the playwright. The less I interacted with him directly, the better.

“It’ll be fine.” Laura smiled. “Connor won’t even notice you’re there. He’ll be totally focused on the stage and the actors.”

“Okay, then.” I leaned back as Azalea set plates in front of Laura and me. “Thank you.”

Azalea nodded and stood back to watch as Laura and I tucked into the pancakes.

“Mmmmm.” Laura chewed with an ecstatic expression. “Azalea, these pancakes are like heaven in my mouth.”

Azalea favored Laura with a smile. She had a tender spot for my daughter. “Thank you, Miss Laura. You eat on up, now. You been working too much, and you losing some weight, no matter how I try to feed you good.”

Laura’s laugh rang out. “I have to work hard to keep my weight down. Your food has spoiled me for my usual diet of carrot and celery sticks. If I didn’t keep on the run, I’d be as big as the side of this house.”

“Go on now.” Azalea actually laughed—a sound I rarely heard. “Little bitty thing like you, ain’t no way you gone get that big, even on my food.”

“No, I’m the one who seems to gain the weight.” I groaned as I regarded my half-finished stack of pancakes.

Azalea gazed at me with no hint of sympathy in her eyes. “You get up and get a move on like Miss Laura do, ain’t gone be no moaning about gaining no weight. Yo’ trouble is you sitting around reading books and petting that lazy cat of yours ’stead of getting busy.” With that pronouncement she turned back to the stove.

I pretended to be outraged. “I’ll have you know I walk up and down the stairs in this house several times a day, plus I walk to work at the college.” Diesel meowed, as if in support.

Laura giggled, and I would have sworn I saw Azalea’s shoulders tremble ever so slightly. I rewarded Diesel with a bite of pancake.

Stewart swept into the room with Dante the poodle hopping excitedly around him. “Good morning, good morning,” he sang to the tune of the famous song from Singin’ in the Rain. Laura joined in, and they went on for a couple of verses. Diesel decided to help them and started warbling. Dante added a few yips to the mix. I watched with a bemused smile.

Azalea shook her head as she set a plate of pancakes and bacon on the table for Stewart. When the choir of four finished, Stewart bowed. I clapped.

“You set on down there and eat yo’ breakfast.” Azalea pointed to Stewart’s plate. “Nobody believe me, I tell ’em how folks carry on in this house.” Her lips twitched.

“As you wish, O Goddess of the Spatula.” Stewart blew Azalea a kiss before he sat. “I’m absolutely famished this morning, and I swear I could eat a dozen of your fabulous pancakes and a pound of that magnificently crunchy bacon.” He poured a generous amount of syrup over his plate and set to with knife and fork. After the first bite he said, “O bliss, o joy.” Dante whimpered and stood on his hind legs to beg.

Azalea shook her head. “You and yo’ mess, ain’t never seen nothing like the fooling you do. You got to be the craziest white man I ever saw.” She sniffed. “With that no-account rat you call a dog too. Go on ahead and give him a bit of pancake so he’ll stop that whining. I know you gone do it anyway soon’s I turn my back.”

“Ah, but you adore me, and my little dog too, admit it.” Stewart’s angelic expression amused me.

Azalea snorted and flapped a hand at him. “Lord knows, ain’t no use in me even trying.”

I saw her lips fight a smile before she turned back to the stove. She pretended to be outraged by Stewart’s antics, but I could see that she got a kick out of him. She also tolerated Dante much better than she did Diesel.

Stewart entertained us all, I had to admit. I had misgivings when he first moved in, but for all his outrageousness—“just being a stereotypical flaming queen,” he called it—he was basically a kindhearted, solid, dependable man.

“You have a great voice,” Stewart said to Laura. “I can’t believe you haven’t done musical theater.”

“Thanks. I did a bit in college, but not since.” Laura crunched bacon for a moment. “I haven’t had an opportunity, but I do enjoy singing. Mostly in the shower.”

“Lucky shower.” Stewart grinned. “So, dish. What’s the latest with Mr. Tall, Tattooed, and Temperamental? How many people has he insulted lately?”

“How much time do you have?” Laura rolled her eyes. “The whole Theater Department is ready to wring his neck but we’re stuck with him. He is a genius, after all.” She snickered.

“Is his play any good?” I started to get up to refill my cup but before I could move, Azalea was there with the coffee pot.

Laura considered a moment before she responded. “I think it will be. I read through the first act a couple times this weekend. There are some rough parts, but workshopping it will help.”

“How so?” Stewart asked.

“Writing dialogue is tricky. Hearing it in your head is one thing. Hearing it performed is another.” She forked a hunk of pancake. “Connor writes brilliant dialogue, but occasionally he’s off the mark. Hearing actors reading it can be illuminating, and Connor’s good at spotting the problems.”

“Can anyone sit in?” Stewart slipped another bite of food to Dante.

“Not just anyone,” Laura said with a smile. “But I think I could sneak you in. Along with Dad.”

“And Diesel. Remember he’ll be with me,” I said. At the sound of his name, Diesel meowed.

Stewart chuckled. “Diesel can give us his review. That cat has discriminating taste. What time is the session?”

“Two,” Laura said.

“That’s not fair. I’ll be teaching my organic chemistry class then, with a lab afterward.” Stewart gave a theatrical sigh. “Guess I’ll have to forego the pleasure of telling the resident genius what I think of his play. At least for now.”

“I’ll be sure to let him know.” Laura grinned.

I pushed back from the table. Time for Diesel and me to finish getting ready for work. “I’ll see you this afternoon, Laura. Have a good day, Stewart. And Azalea, thank you for yet another delicious breakfast.”

My housekeeper nodded her head as Laura and Stewart acknowledged my comments.

“I’ll be back after I brush my teeth,” I told Diesel. I was so used to talking to my cat, I no longer worried about how odd it might sound to other humans. Stewart and Laura were so busy chattering that they probably didn’t hear me. Azalea simply shook her head at me.

Diesel gazed up at me. I was convinced he understood what I said to him. He meowed a couple of times in response, and he moved to sit by Laura as I left the kitchen.

Or maybe it was the bite of pancake dangling from her finger that attracted him.

The morning passed quickly. I ate lunch at my desk. Diesel mostly napped, but on occasion he roused enough to warble at the birds in the tree outside his window. He batted at the glass, his large paw going thunk when it struck the pane.

At a quarter of two I closed up shop and fitted Diesel into his harness, and we walked to the auditorium two blocks away. Ancient trees shaded our walk, and I was thankful for relief from the blazing afternoon sun. The college occupied land that had once been dense forest. The pre–Civil War founders made sure the campus retained an abundance of green, and administrators since then had not violated the policy.

The auditorium dated from the late nineteenth century and sported all the elegance of Gilded Age architecture, like a mini-Biltmore. Though more ornate than the nearby antebellum buildings in classic Greek Revival style, the Maria Hogan Butler Center for the Performing Arts harmonized well with its neighbors.

Diesel and I mounted the broad steps, paused at the door for a pair of exiting students, then strolled into the cool dimness of the lobby. Whenever I stepped inside the Butler Center, I always fancied I could hear echoes of long-ago productions. Today I heard the air conditioner’s low hum and voices from the auditorium ahead. The right-hand set of double doors was propped open, and Diesel and I headed for them.

A few steps inside the theater I paused, and Diesel stood beside me. I sniffed mingled odors of the greasepaint and dust of ages past—or so I fancied—as I gazed with affection over the ornate fixtures and slightly shabby carpet. The seat covers, once a plush wine velvet, had faded to soft pink. I recalled some of the plays I’d seen here as a student thirty years ago—my first live taste of Shakespeare and others.

Diesel shrank against my leg at a sudden burst of noise from the stage. Memories pushed aside, I stared, appalled, as Connor Lawton staggered around the stage, clutching at his throat. No one on stage with him seemed to be paying much attention—except for Laura, who watched his stumbling progress with a scowl. She didn’t seem particularly concerned, only annoyed.

What was going on here? Was it a scene from the play?

Lawton gagged loudly, his arms went limp, and he crumpled to the stage. His body jerked twice, then went still.

Deathly still.