File M For Murder

Johnston mulled that over for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. That sounds like a sensible workaround to me. But if Lawton doesn’t start behaving in a more mature, professional fashion, I will take drastic steps.”

“Yes, sir.” Laura nodded. She waved to indicate the cast. “Let’s get on with our reading. I doubt Connor will be back this afternoon.”

“Good, good.” Johnston bobbed his head back and forth. “Sensible. If you need me, call Sarabeth and she’ll know where to find me.” He strode off down the steps and up the aisle.

Toby, the student actor reading the part of old Mr. Ferris, moved forward. “Laura, we’d all rather work with you. Why don’t you direct the play?”

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.