Миранда Джеймс: File M For Murder

“Come on, Nathan, seriously , Elton John?” The other man, about Laura’s age, mimicked the tones of his opponent. He was about six feet tall, I estimated. “It’s freaking musical theater, you jackass. Who the heck expects Strindberg or Ibsen when they go to a musical?” He turned away and caught sight of Laura. His eyes widened, and he smiled.

Nathan wasn’t done, it seemed, because he tapped the other man on the shoulder. “Sir Elton is a genius.” His opponent paid no attention and stepped closer to Laura and me.

“Let it go, Nathan. Frank’s lost interest,” the young woman said in bored tones. “Let’s grab something to eat.” They moved toward the door into the hall.

“Jade’s right. Go away,” Frank said, his eyes fixed on Laura. He extended a hand. “You must be Laura Harris. Glad to meet you. Frank Salisbury. I teach set design.” His pleasant baritone had a regional twang, Alabama or perhaps Georgia, I thought.

Laura took his hand and offered an impish smile. “Hi, Frank. Nice to meet you.” She gestured toward me with her head. “This is my dad, Charlie Harris.”

“How do you do, sir?” Frank offered me his hand now, and I shook it, liking the firm grasp. “I’ve seen you around campus, haven’t I?”

“Yes, I’m the archivist and rare book librarian,” I said. “I’ve seen you around, too.”

Frank was polite enough to look at me while I talked, but his eyes shifted back to Laura the moment I fell silent. I suppressed a smile.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Frank said. “There’s wine, beer, soft drinks, bottled water.”

“I’ll have a glass of white wine,” Laura said, her eyes sparkling. I recognized the signs. Frank was like most of the young men Laura dated through high school and college: an inch or so taller than she, on the husky side, with dark hair and eyes and a full beard. His teeth gleamed as he grinned at Laura.

“Coming right up,” Frank said as he turned away. Then, apparently remembering his manners, he turned back. “How about you, Mr. Harris?”

“Charlie, please. And I’ll take a glass of red, thanks.”

“Charlie it is, then.” Frank went to the counter and pulled a bottle of white wine from a cooler, filled a wineglass, and handed it to Laura with a graceful flourish. Then he found the red wine on the counter and presented me with a goblet of it, sans flourish. He picked up his bottle of beer as we thanked him.

“I hope you like children,” he told Laura. “I think we should have three.” He sipped at his beer, his eyes twinkling.

Laura’s laugh rang out. I was taken aback, but my daughter seemed unfazed by such a direct come-on.

“Oh, no, I want at least seven,” Laura said, her expression demure.

“Works for me.” Frank laughed. “How about I take you around and introduce you to some of the department members? But just remember, I saw you first.”

Laura glanced at me, and I nodded. “Lay on, Macduff.” Quoting Shakespeare didn’t seem out of place in this gathering. Plus it was an old game with Laura and me. She had fallen in love with Shakespeare in the ninth grade, when her class read Romeo and Juliet .

She took Frank’s proffered arm and threw me a smile as she and her new beau left the kitchen.

Frank seemed like a nice enough young man, certainly more appealing than Connor Lawton. I hoped Laura meant what she said when she claimed she and the playwright were now friends and nothing more.

I had little inclination to return to the party in the living room. There was a table with four chairs near the back door, and I ambled over and took a seat in the corner. I loosened my tie and had another sip of wine. It was a nice vintage, much better than I expected. At most faculty get-togethers, the wine was generally on the cheap side, but this was good stuff.

My solitude lasted only six or seven minutes. I heard a loud obscenity and looked up to see Connor Lawton, dressed in his usual sleeveless shirt and worn jeans, enter the kitchen. I watched as he, obviously unaware of my presence, rooted in the cooler and pulled out a beer. He popped the top and took a long swig. He set the bottle on the counter and pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his jeans pocket. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it, expelling smoke into the air with a grunt.

He still hadn’t noticed me, and I decided to see how long it took him to realize he wasn’t alone. He picked up his bottle again and leaned against the counter, smoking and drinking, turned slightly away from me. He quickly finished his drink, deposited the empty bottle on the counter, and pulled another drink from the cooler.

I could see him glancing idly around the room where he stood, and his body stiffened all of a sudden. He stared at something across the room. I followed his gaze but couldn’t tell for sure what had caught his attention. The wall held a few photographs, but most of the space was taken up by cabinets. As I watched, Connor set his bottle down and stepped forward a few paces to kneel before one cabinet. He ran his hands over the surface of the door, then grabbed the handle and opened it.

He rocked back on his heels. “I’ll be damned,” he said in a low voice. Then he started nodding. “Not so nuts after all.”

He closed the door and stood. He went back to the counter, had a last drag of his cigarette, dropped his butt in the sink, and grabbed his beer. He strode out of the kitchen, never noting my presence as far as I could tell.

I drained the last of my wine and went to the counter to refill my glass. I glanced over at the cabinet Connor Lawton had opened, and curiosity got the better of me. I had to see what was in it. What fascinated him about this particular cabinet?

I knelt in front of it. The door was about three feet high and nearly as wide. I tugged it open. The interior was maybe two feet deep and slightly wider and taller than the door dimensions. I examined the contents. Nothing but cleaning supplies. The mingled smells of pine cleaner and furniture polish wafted out to me.

There was nothing remarkable about the cabinet that I could see. Most kitchens had one like it. I shut the door and stood, wondering what this cabinet meant to Connor Lawton.

Then I shook my head. Who knew what might set off a writer’s imagination?

I retrieved my wineglass and decided to join the party. I paused in the doorway and scanned the crowd, looking for Laura and Frank. They sat on a sofa to my right. One young man perched on the arm next to Laura, and another, older man leaned against the back, behind where Frank sat. He watched my daughter with a slight smile. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him at the moment. I thought I had probably seen him around campus. A few other young men hovered close.

Connor Lawton held court from another sofa a dozen feet away from where Laura sat. Two women occupied the sofa with him, and five more crowded as close as they could, sitting on the floor and arms of the sofa. As I watched, I saw Connor’s eyes shift in Laura’s direction and back again several times.

This didn’t impede the flow of his words, however. I moved a bit closer and tuned in to what he was saying. “…going to change the focus of the play, so I’ll have to do some rewriting.”

The woman I noticed earlier with our host, the one in a pink-and-orange caftan, ventured a question. “Where did this sudden inspiration come from?” She seemed particularly intent on the playwright. For some reason I flashed on an image of a bird dog on point.

Connor frowned at her. “From the subconscious, the home of all inspiration. Things from the past lodge there—people, places, events—and resurface when you least expect it. An artist learns to trust these messages and dig into them, seeking the root and the truth they reveal.”