File M For Murder

He still hadn’t noticed me, and I decided to see how long it took him to realize he wasn’t alone. He picked up his bottle again and leaned against the counter, smoking and drinking, turned slightly away from me. He quickly finished his drink, deposited the empty bottle on the counter, and pulled another drink from the cooler.

I could see him glancing idly around the room where he stood, and his body stiffened all of a sudden. He stared at something across the room. I followed his gaze but couldn’t tell for sure what had caught his attention. The wall held a few photographs, but most of the space was taken up by cabinets. As I watched, Connor set his bottle down and stepped forward a few paces to kneel before one cabinet. He ran his hands over the surface of the door, then grabbed the handle and opened it.

He rocked back on his heels. “I’ll be damned,” he said in a low voice. Then he started nodding. “Not so nuts after all.”

He closed the door and stood. He went back to the counter, had a last drag of his cigarette, dropped his butt in the sink, and grabbed his beer. He strode out of the kitchen, never noting my presence as far as I could tell.

I drained the last of my wine and went to the counter to refill my glass. I glanced over at the cabinet Connor Lawton had opened, and curiosity got the better of me. I had to see what was in it. What fascinated him about this particular cabinet?

I knelt in front of it. The door was about three feet high and nearly as wide. I tugged it open. The interior was maybe two feet deep and slightly wider and taller than the door dimensions. I examined the contents. Nothing but cleaning supplies. The mingled smells of pine cleaner and furniture polish wafted out to me.

There was nothing remarkable about the cabinet that I could see. Most kitchens had one like it. I shut the door and stood, wondering what this cabinet meant to Connor Lawton.

Then I shook my head. Who knew what might set off a writer’s imagination?

I retrieved my wineglass and decided to join the party. I paused in the doorway and scanned the crowd, looking for Laura and Frank. They sat on a sofa to my right. One young man perched on the arm next to Laura, and another, older man leaned against the back, behind where Frank sat. He watched my daughter with a slight smile. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him at the moment. I thought I had probably seen him around campus. A few other young men hovered close.

Connor Lawton held court from another sofa a dozen feet away from where Laura sat. Two women occupied the sofa with him, and five more crowded as close as they could, sitting on the floor and arms of the sofa. As I watched, I saw Connor’s eyes shift in Laura’s direction and back again several times.

This didn’t impede the flow of his words, however. I moved a bit closer and tuned in to what he was saying. “…going to change the focus of the play, so I’ll have to do some rewriting.”

The woman I noticed earlier with our host, the one in a pink-and-orange caftan, ventured a question. “Where did this sudden inspiration come from?” She seemed particularly intent on the playwright. For some reason I flashed on an image of a bird dog on point.

Connor frowned at her. “From the subconscious, the home of all inspiration. Things from the past lodge there—people, places, events—and resurface when you least expect it. An artist learns to trust these messages and dig into them, seeking the root and the truth they reveal.”

The room around Connor and his acolytes grew silent as he spoke, and when he finished his statement, the only sounds I heard were people breathing.

Someone spoke in an undertone, and I turned to see Frank Salisbury, his head near Laura’s. She laughed, and the buzz of conversation resumed.

Connor Lawton uttered an obscenity in a loud voice and jumped up from the sofa. He glared at Laura and Frank for a moment, but they appeared not to notice him. Connor’s face reddened, and he took two steps toward Laura’s group.

Connor looked furious. I thought I might have to intervene before the situation got out of hand. Instead, the playwright turned and brushed past me into the hall. Moments later the front door slammed.

Personally, I hoped he didn’t come back. I’d had about as much of Connor Lawton as I could take for one night. The party would be much less tense without his brooding presence.

FIVE

The women Connor abandoned drifted away from the sofa, all except the heavyset woman in the caftan. She sat down and gazed about her. Something seemed familiar about her face. She caught my eye and beckoned me with a smile.

She patted the sofa beside her. “Please join me.” She waited until I was seated to continue. “I recognize you, but you probably don’t remember me.” She gazed expectantly into my eyes.