File M For Murder

We found three people in the kitchen. They were involved in an animated discussion of modern musical theater, from what I could discern.

“Lloyd Webber’s a prime example of bubble gum for the masses.” The speaker, a gaunt young man who had to be at least six-eight, poked the chest of a shorter, husky, bearded man maybe six inches in front of him. A smiling brunette shook her head as she watched the two men. “How can you stand there and defend him as a gifted composer? I mean, come on, dude, seriously? Lloyd Webber?”

“Come on, Nathan, seriously, Elton John?” The other man, about Laura’s age, mimicked the tones of his opponent. He was about six feet tall, I estimated. “It’s freaking musical theater, you jackass. Who the heck expects Strindberg or Ibsen when they go to a musical?” He turned away and caught sight of Laura. His eyes widened, and he smiled.

Nathan wasn’t done, it seemed, because he tapped the other man on the shoulder. “Sir Elton is a genius.” His opponent paid no attention and stepped closer to Laura and me.

“Let it go, Nathan. Frank’s lost interest,” the young woman said in bored tones. “Let’s grab something to eat.” They moved toward the door into the hall.

“Jade’s right. Go away,” Frank said, his eyes fixed on Laura. He extended a hand. “You must be Laura Harris. Glad to meet you. Frank Salisbury. I teach set design.” His pleasant baritone had a regional twang, Alabama or perhaps Georgia, I thought.

Laura took his hand and offered an impish smile. “Hi, Frank. Nice to meet you.” She gestured toward me with her head. “This is my dad, Charlie Harris.”

“How do you do, sir?” Frank offered me his hand now, and I shook it, liking the firm grasp. “I’ve seen you around campus, haven’t I?”

“Yes, I’m the archivist and rare book librarian,” I said. “I’ve seen you around, too.”

Frank was polite enough to look at me while I talked, but his eyes shifted back to Laura the moment I fell silent. I suppressed a smile.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Frank said. “There’s wine, beer, soft drinks, bottled water.”

“I’ll have a glass of white wine,” Laura said, her eyes sparkling. I recognized the signs. Frank was like most of the young men Laura dated through high school and college: an inch or so taller than she, on the husky side, with dark hair and eyes and a full beard. His teeth gleamed as he grinned at Laura.

“Coming right up,” Frank said as he turned away. Then, apparently remembering his manners, he turned back. “How about you, Mr. Harris?”

“Charlie, please. And I’ll take a glass of red, thanks.”

“Charlie it is, then.” Frank went to the counter and pulled a bottle of white wine from a cooler, filled a wineglass, and handed it to Laura with a graceful flourish. Then he found the red wine on the counter and presented me with a goblet of it, sans flourish. He picked up his bottle of beer as we thanked him.

“I hope you like children,” he told Laura. “I think we should have three.” He sipped at his beer, his eyes twinkling.

Laura’s laugh rang out. I was taken aback, but my daughter seemed unfazed by such a direct come-on.

“Oh, no, I want at least seven,” Laura said, her expression demure.

“Works for me.” Frank laughed. “How about I take you around and introduce you to some of the department members? But just remember, I saw you first.”

Laura glanced at me, and I nodded. “Lay on, Macduff.” Quoting Shakespeare didn’t seem out of place in this gathering. Plus it was an old game with Laura and me. She had fallen in love with Shakespeare in the ninth grade, when her class read Romeo and Juliet.

She took Frank’s proffered arm and threw me a smile as she and her new beau left the kitchen.

Frank seemed like a nice enough young man, certainly more appealing than Connor Lawton. I hoped Laura meant what she said when she claimed she and the playwright were now friends and nothing more.

I had little inclination to return to the party in the living room. There was a table with four chairs near the back door, and I ambled over and took a seat in the corner. I loosened my tie and had another sip of wine. It was a nice vintage, much better than I expected. At most faculty get-togethers, the wine was generally on the cheap side, but this was good stuff.

My solitude lasted only six or seven minutes. I heard a loud obscenity and looked up to see Connor Lawton, dressed in his usual sleeveless shirt and worn jeans, enter the kitchen. I watched as he, obviously unaware of my presence, rooted in the cooler and pulled out a beer. He popped the top and took a long swig. He set the bottle on the counter and pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his jeans pocket. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it, expelling smoke into the air with a grunt.