Миранда Джеймс: File M For Murder

“Since she’s definitely here in town, looks like Laura could be right about the source of the photograph.” Sean powered down his laptop and set it aside.

“I guess, but I still don’t like the situation. I have a good mind to go over there right now and talk to her.”

“Why don’t you let me do that?” Sean said. “As Laura’s lawyer. Maybe frighten her enough with legal repercussions that she’ll back off and leave Laura alone.”

“Sounds like a plan. Thanks, son.” I paused to think for a moment. “Why don’t you wait until Laura and I leave for the cocktail party? That way you won’t have to make up some errand.”

“Good idea,” Sean said. “What time are you leaving?”

“Around five,” I said.

The arrangements made, I spent the rest of the afternoon enjoying myself, talking with my daughter and her new best friend, Stewart. The two of them together entertained me, trading gossipy trivia about movie stars past and present.

Laura disappeared upstairs at four to get ready for the party, and I went up shortly afterward to do the same. Diesel stayed downstairs with Sean, Stewart, and Dante. He wouldn’t be happy when Laura and I left the house, because I wasn’t going to take him with me as I usually did.

Stewart solved that problem by taking Diesel and Dante to the backyard for a play session. When Laura came down the stairs a few minutes before five, I was ready.

She was stunning in a sheath of turquoise silk that fit her figure and set off her tanned skin perfectly. Dangling silver-and-turquoise earrings that once belonged to her mother accentuated the long line of her neck. Her lustrous dark hair was pulled back in a chignon, her curls for once sleekly restrained. She carried a small clutch the color of her dress, and her high-heel shoes were a shade darker. I’d forgotten just how mature and elegant she could look.

“Maybe I should carry a big stick with me.” I smiled at her as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “They’ll be swarming all over you.”

Laura laughed. “You are so good for my ego.”

As I backed the car out of the garage, Laura pulled an invitation from her purse. “The address is 1744 Rosemary Street. Do you know where that is?”

“Only a few minutes from here,” I said. “It’s in a neighborhood like ours on the other side of the town square.”

At five-fifteen I turned onto Rosemary Street and soon spotted the house. I had to park half a block away, and as I escorted Laura down the walk we both admired the beautiful houses. This neighborhood, like mine, dated from the latter years of the nineteenth century, when the fashion was for large, multistoried houses. The lots were generous, and there were plenty of trees to help shade the houses. The hot summer sun turned the faded red brick of 1744 to pink, and I felt the heat radiating from it as we headed up the walk.

I was perspiring freely by the time we reached the front door, and I itched to lose my jacket and tie. Laura, on the other hand, appeared unaffected by the heat. I rang the doorbell, and we waited.

And waited. I rang again. Sounds of merriment from inside reached us easily, and I suspected no one could hear the doorbell.

“Let’s just go in.” Laura reached for the knob and swung the door open. I felt a welcome blast of cold air and followed her inside.

The noise was much louder now, and I decided I should have brought earplugs along with a big stick. I’d have a headache before long, thanks to this din. I pulled out my handkerchief and mopped my face and the back of my head. I stuck the sodden linen in my jacket pocket.

We approached a nearby doorway and paused to observe the scene inside the room. The space was large, perhaps thirty by forty, the furniture and wooden floor worn but clean. I counted sixteen people spread out around the room, and they all seemed to be talking and gesturing at once. I recognized one of them as the host, Ralph Johnston, or Montana, as he now insisted he be called.

There were a few vaguely familiar faces, but no one who I could put a name to besides Ralph. I hated making cocktail-party chitchat with people I didn’t know, but for Laura’s sake I’d make the effort.

Even so the next couple of hours could well seem like twenty.

FOUR

Ralph—I had a hard time thinking of him as Montana—glanced our way and frowned, looking puzzled. Then recognition seemed to dawn. He left his companion, a heavyset woman in a pink-and-orange caftan, and approached us.

Ralph’s protuberant eyes blinked rapidly. His sallow, egg-shaped head with its orphaned blond forelock and shiny bald dome never failed to remind me of Tweety, the cartoon bird. He even flapped his hands slightly as he halted in front of Laura and bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet.

“You are Laura Harris,” he said in a reedy tenor. He stopped flapping and bobbing long enough to extend a hand, and Laura took it with a friendly smile.

“And you’re Professor Johnston,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you finally. Thank you for hiring me for the semester. It’s going to be brilliant.”

“Oh, my dear, I’m sure it will.” Johnston couldn’t take his eyes off my daughter, and I felt the lack of a stick keenly.

I cleared my throat and stuck out my hand. “Evening, Johnston. Good to see you. I hope you don’t mind my tagging along as Laura’s escort.”

The erstwhile playwright wrenched his gaze away from Laura and looked blankly at me. Then his eyes cleared, and he shook my hand. “Right. Harris. The librarian.” His glance darted to Laura and back to me. “Hard to believe such a beautiful creature sprang from the loins of an old librarian. Though she does have your coloring. Interesting.”

He fell silent and stared at Laura.

Now I remembered why I avoided the man whenever we were in the same room at a college function. He and tact were barely acquainted.

“How about something to drink?” I raised my voice to penetrate our host’s apparent fog. “I’m pretty thirsty.”

“That would be lovely.” Laura smiled, and Johnston came out of his reverie.

“Drink. Uh, yeah.” Before he said anything more, a short, frowzy redhead in a worn yellow jumpsuit approached and grabbed his arm. From the fumes coming off her I figured she was already pickled, and her slurred speech confirmed it.

“C’mon, Rowf, wanna ask you ’bout sump’n.” She swayed toward him, and Johnston grimaced. “When’s Connor gonna get here? Said he would be here. But he’s not here.”

“How the heck should I know when he’s going to turn up, Magda? You know what he’s like. Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down. I think you could use a rest.” He tried to pry her fingers from his arm without success. “All right then.” He shrugged. “Drinks are in the kitchen. Down the hall and to the right. Help yourselves.” He flapped his free arm as Magda dragged him away, asking once more about Connor.

“Who is she?” Laura asked as we headed for the door.

“I think she’s his wife, or maybe his ex-wife,” I said. “I heard something about them not long ago through the campus grapevine, but I can’t remember precisely what it was.” Privately I wondered why she was so interested in Connor, but I dismissed the thought as we wandered down the hall.

We found three people in the kitchen. They were involved in an animated discussion of modern musical theater, from what I could discern.

“Lloyd Webber’s a prime example of bubble gum for the masses.” The speaker, a gaunt young man who had to be at least six-eight, poked the chest of a shorter, husky, bearded man maybe six inches in front of him. A smiling brunette shook her head as she watched the two men. “How can you stand there and defend him as a gifted composer? I mean, come on, dude, seriously? Lloyd Webber?”