File M For Murder

“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.

NINE

All conversation ceased as every person on stage turned to stare at the prone body of the playwright. My feet felt frozen to the carpet as I continued to watch in growing concern. Perhaps this was serious after all. Lawton lay immobile. Diesel, sensing my unease, muttered and rubbed against my right leg.

Then, to my great relief, Lawton pushed himself to his feet in one swift move. He regarded the company with contempt.

“Based on the reading I heard, the audience will stagger out of here and die like I did just now. If that’s the best you can do”—he turned to glare at Laura—“and the best your acting coach can teach you, I might as well cancel the production.”

The general look of dismay around him made me want to storm up there and give Lawton a piece of my mind. Even if the reading was as bad as Lawton proclaimed, it surely couldn’t have been bad enough to warrant such vitriol.

My daughter apparently agreed with me. Her face flushed red. She stepped forward until she was almost nose to nose with the irate playwright. “You’re being a complete jackass, Connor, and you know it. You’re pissed at me, and you shouldn’t take it out on the students.” She expelled a harsh breath. “Besides, if you insist on rewriting the scenes every night and then giving the cast three minutes to look over the new pages, you’ll get what you get. Your expectations are ridiculous.”

Lawton didn’t appeared fazed by Laura’s counterattack. “What I expect is for your so-called actors”—the word dripped with contempt—“to act, not read as if English were an incomprehensible tongue. Pardon me if that’s ridiculous.”