File M For Murder

“Repressed memory, isn’t that what it’s called?” Stewart asked.

“Yes,” I said. “According to Laura, Connor didn’t remember much about his life in Athena until he came back here. Then, slowly, memories started to surface.”

“That’s when he totally changed the focus of the play.” Laura ran a hand through her hair a couple of times. “At first he probably wasn’t aware of what he was doing. The story was just there, in his subconscious, and out it came. The more he wrote, the more he saw of people and places here, the more memories that surfaced.”

“That’s exactly what I think happened.” I nodded approvingly at my daughter.

“So, basically what you’re telling me is this.” Ray fixed his gaze on me. “Sarabeth Norris drowned her father in the bathtub because the old man refused to help her brother. Lawton overheard something potentially incriminating when he was possibly locked inside the kitchen cabinet. Then, nearly thirty years later, he comes back to Athena and starts writing a play, and that play is about what happened to the Norris family.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it.” Sean nodded. “Then Sarabeth, or maybe her brother, killed Lawton because they wanted to stop the play. They were probably afraid that people would remember their father’s death once they saw the play and start connecting the two.”

“Seems kind of far-fetched to me,” Appleby said. “Like something out of Agatha Christie.” He shook his head. “But it’s just oddball enough to be true. What do you expect me to do?”

“Nothing, for the moment,” I said. “This is all speculative. The only thing to do is to lay all this in front of Kanesha Berry and let her handle it.”

“Are there any other suspects? She hasn’t had much to say to the press about the investigation so far, simply the standard comments about following up leads.” Ray sounded disgruntled.

I’d been so caught up in developing my hazy, unformed idea into a full-blown theory that I’d forgotten all about Ralph and Magda Johnston. We had all spoken freely with Ray about Sarabeth’s alleged involvement in Connor’s death, mainly because I needed information that only Ray could supply. But could I justify telling the reporter about the Johnstons’ dirty laundry?

I realized that Laura, Sean, and Stewart were watching me expectantly, waiting for me to respond to the question.

“Guess there must be,” Ray said with a slight smirk. “Otherwise you would have denied it already. So who is it?”

“I’m on the proverbial horns of a dilemma,” I said in an effort to stall. I continued to think. I could tell him what Helen Louise told me, because evidently the Johnstons’ marriage woes were widely known in town. But I didn’t think I should say anything about the letter Connor wrote concerning Ralph’s play.

“Okay, here goes,” I said, and four pairs of eyes stared at me. “Connor was having an affair with a married woman, one who’s apparently notorious for sleeping around.”

“You mean Magda Johnston.” Ray’s statement didn’t really surprise me.

“Yes. I had it from a very reliable source that she and Connor were seen together on several occasions, and their behavior with each other made it clear they were having an affair.” This was all so sordid, just as the story of the Norris family was. But somewhere in all the sordidness lay the answer to Connor’s death—and perhaps to Hubert Norris’s and Damitra Vane’s deaths as well.

“Johnston did try to beat up that athlete his wife was screwing around with.” Ray cocked his head to one side as he regarded me. “So maybe Johnston finally went postal and offed the guy his wife was sleeping with?” He nodded. “That doesn’t sound nearly so far-fetched to me. There are all kinds of stories about those two nuts.”

“There’s another motive as well, but one that I really can’t go into detail about,” I said, feeling somewhat foolish. “But it has to do with a professional matter.”

“Let me guess,” Ray said, a speculative gleam in his eye. “Ralph Johnston—excuse me, Montana Johnston—fancies himself as a playwright.” He snorted derisively. “But I saw that play of his, and it was horrendously bad. Your cat could probably write something better.”

I smiled fondly at Diesel, who lay by my chair, his head on his front paws. “I can’t argue with that. I saw the play, too.”

“Then I’ll bet Lawton mouthed off about Johnston’s play.” Ray grinned. “I interviewed Lawton right after he first got to town, and he was pretty full of himself. I left out some of the less-than-polite things he had to say about the Theater Department at the college.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny your conclusion.” I smiled. Ray Appleby was sharp, I had to admit.

“No need to.” Ray nodded. “I’ve also interviewed Johnston a couple of times. He’s his own biggest fan, believe you me, and I know he wouldn’t take it too well to have someone like Lawton come in here and tell him he’s an idiot.”

“What do we do now? Invite them all over for tea in the library where you do your best Hercule Poirot imitation and reveal all?” Stewart’s facetious question was directed at me.