File M For Murder

We didn’t wait long, for which I was thankful. Right on the dot of nine, Teresa Farmer, the head of the reference department and second in command, unlocked the doors and ushered us in. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said in her soft voice. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Good morning to you, too,” I said, and Diesel chirped his greeting. “We’re here to do a little newspaper research this morning.”

Teresa paused for a moment to scratch the cat’s head, then excused herself to put away the keys in her office. Diesel and I greeted the other library staffers we saw on our way to the room that contained the microfilms and readers.

I removed Diesel’s leash and put it on a table. While I did my research, he would probably go visit with his buddies among the library staff. I knew I didn’t have to worry about him here where he was universally adored.

I pulled the page of notes from my pocket and unfolded it. Holding it up, I began to examine the drawers of microfilm to find the ones containing the back issues of the Register. I would start there and then look for the Commercial Appeal. After a quick online check last night, I discovered that the digital archives of the Memphis paper didn’t start until sometime in June of 1990.

The first number was 1-84321 and, if I was correct in my interpretation, that meant page one of the March 21, 1984, issue. I found the appropriate drawer and then the box. Settling down at the microfilm reader, I prepared the film for reading. I was an old hand at this, and I quickly found the page I wanted.

I scanned the headlines. There was a report from the recent city council meeting and a piece on street improvements in the oldest part of town. All run-of-the-mill stuff, and I couldn’t see Lawton being interested in any of it. There was one small headline near the bottom, “Former Mayor Dead at 83.”

According to the brief article, only several sentences long, Hubert Norris, who had served as mayor of Athena for twelve years back in the early 1960s, had died at home at the age of eighty-three.

That didn’t sound promising either, though the name Norris rang a faint bell. Where had I heard it recently?

I glanced at the article again. The survivors mentioned were his wife, a daughter, Sarabeth Conley, and a son, Levi Norris.

That’s why it was familiar. Sarabeth’s father.

This had to be what interested Lawton, since he’d obviously known Sarabeth. But why?

THIRTY-FOUR

There were no other details about former mayor Norris’s death. The next issue indicated was two days later, the twenty-third. A Friday, as it turned out. Hoping for further information, I scrolled down the pages until I came to the first page of the issue.

Hubert Norris’s death was the main headline: “Tragic Death in Norris Family.” I noted with some surprise that the byline belonged to Ray Appleby. I hadn’t realized he was working for the Register that long ago.

That explained, however, why Lawton had the reporter’s name in his notes. Had he talked to Appleby about this? I would have to check with the reporter, though I wasn’t keen on revealing my connections with Lawton’s murder. I would have to, though, because I doubted Appleby would simply open up to me out of the goodness of his heart. He was a seasoned and shrewd reporter, accustomed to digging up information, not giving it away.

Norris’s death did indeed sound tragic. He had drowned in his bath. According to Appleby, a “tearful Mrs. Norris” confided that “Hubert found it relaxing to soak in the tub with a glass or two of whisky.” But “nothing like this ever happened before,” Mrs. Norris went on to say.

I winced at that latter statement, knowing that people will often say nonsensical things when in shock or grieving.

Appleby didn’t come right out and say it, but the inference was clear. Hubert Norris had had too much to drink, fallen asleep in the bathtub, and drowned. Did he have a drinking problem? I wondered.

I couldn’t recall anything about the family other than Sarabeth’s babysitting me when I was a child. My parents didn’t socialize with the Norrises from what I could remember, nor could I recall hearing Aunt Dottie talk much about them. By the time Hubert Norris drowned in the bathtub, I was married and living in Houston, the proud father of an infant son.

I had several sources for Norris family history, however. Helen Louise was in France at the time of Norris’s death, I calculated, but she still might know something. Azalea and my friend Melba Gilley could fill in any necessary blanks, as could Ray Appleby, if he were so inclined.

But why was Connor Lawton so interested in Hubert Norris’s death? It seemed like an ordinary tragedy and not terribly useful to a playwright.

Unless, of course, Lawton thought there was more to the story. But what could there be? Maybe that Norris’s death wasn’t an accident?

Hold on, I told myself.