File M for Murder

by Miranda James

  Before Lawton could react, I motioned to a tall, muscular youth a few feet from the other side of the combatants. He responded immediately and stepped forward to grab Ralph Johnston and pull him further away. I stepped in front of Lawton and glared at him.

  “Enough.” My temper flared, and I knew if the playwright attempted to attack me, I’d knock him back so fast he wouldn’t know what hit him. He was much younger than I, but I outweighed him by at least fifty pounds and was several inches taller.

  Lawton took one look at my face and apparently read my intent. He stepped back, his hands coming up in a gesture of surrender.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself.” A new, but familiar, voice startled both the playwright and me. I glanced aside to see Sarabeth Conley, Johnston’s administrative assistant, her expression one of grim determination, striding toward us.

  Lawton glanced at her and paled. He took two more steps back, almost to the edge of the stage. Sarabeth, tall and heavyset, was a formidable sight, like Boudicca defying the Romans. She stopped a couple of feet away and raked Lawton with a glance of disgust. “You were raised better than this. How long do you think you can get away with treating people like idiots before someone teaches you a lesson you won’t recover from?”

  With that she turned away and focused her attention on Ralph Johnston. The light caught her caftan, the same one she had worn at the party, and played off the many beads and sequins. The muscular student had released him, and Johnston was breathing deeply to regain his composure. When Sarabeth slid an arm around his shoulders, he spoke. “First I must offer my apologies to you all. My behavior was inexcusable, though I feel justified in saying that I was the subject of extreme provocation.” He paused for a deep breath. “I’m going straight to the president of the college to report his incident, Lawton. I’m going to do my best to have your contract terminated immediately.”

  Lawton made a rude gesture, but before the situation could escalate again, Laura stepped forward, Diesel at her side.

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Professor,” she said in her best placatory tone. “Things have certainly gotten out of hand, but I’m sure once Connor has had time to think things over, he’ll apologize to you and to everyone else.” She glared at Lawton, as if to intimidate him into submission.

  Why on earth was my daughter running interference for this cretin? Did she still harbor feelings for him? Or was she simply trying to help a friend who’d gone too far?

  “And here I was, thinking maybe you didn’t care after all, babydoll.” Connor crowed with laughter.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” Laura had fire in her eyes, and if Lawton knew what was good for him, he’d back off. Laura was like me, with a fuse slow to ignite, but once it did, she would take no prisoners. “I’m looking out for the students, not you.”

  “I guess that puts me in my place.” Lawton’s tone was mocking. “Fine. Sorry, Johnston. Guess I got carried away, heat of the moment and all that. I promise I’ll chill out.” His voice hardened. “But I’m going to direct this play. No one else.”

  I watched Johnston for his reaction. His pugnacity seemed to have fled, replaced by exhaustion. Sarabeth still had her arm around him, and he appeared to need the support. Johnston waved a hand in Lawton’s direction. “Long as you don’t browbeat the students anymore, I guess we can go ahead.”

  “Right, then.” Laura moved forward to center stage. “Let’s all take ten, then we’ll start again from the top of scene two.” She clapped her hands, and everyone on stage began to move.

  Sarabeth led Johnston to the wings, and the students quickly disappeared.

  “So now you’re stage manager as well?” Lawton smiled sourly.

  “Take a smoke break,” Laura advised him. “Maybe some nicotine in your system will calm you down.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Lawton sketched a derisory bow, then turned and jumped down from the stage. He headed up the aisle toward the door.

  Laura turned to me, and I could see the strain in her expression. Diesel rubbed against her legs and chirped. With a quick smile she squatted and hugged the cat against her. Diesel kept chirping and meowing, and Laura told him, “You’re the best tonic in the world, big boy.”

  I moved closer and extended a hand. Laura grasped it and stood. “Thanks, Dad. I’m glad you and Diesel are here, but I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

  “I’m sorry you have to deal with that clown.” I frowned. “Johnston was right. He ought to see what he can do about cancelling Lawton’s contract. He’s surely not worth all this hullabaloo.”

  Laura sighed. “I know he’s difficult. Trust me, I’ve seen him in action several times. But usually after one good blowup he settles down.”

  “I hope you’re right.” I put my arm around her, and she rested her head on my shoulder a moment. Diesel rubbed against both our legs. He was so big he could actually touch all four at once.

  Movement in the wings stage right caught my attention. A man stood in the shadows. I couldn’t see his face, but he moved into the light for a moment. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, with a stocky build, a shock of salt-and-pepper hair, and stubbled cheeks. His rumpled clothing, similar to what the college custodial staff wore but less well kept, lent him a seedy air. He hesitated, then moved forward. He looked vaguely familiar.

  I released Laura, and she straightened as the stranger paused in front of us.

  “Excuse me.” His voice was deep. “Looking for Sarabeth Conley. They said she was here. You seen her?”

  “She was here until a few minutes ago,” I said. I gestured toward stage left. “She went out that way, but I’m not sure where she is now.”

  “Thanks.” The man nodded and disappeared moments later into the shadows of stage left.

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “I’ve noticed him a couple of times, hanging around the theater.” Laura frowned.

  “I’ve seen him around campus, I think,” I said. “Pretty recently, too.”

  “Oh, I know,” Laura said. “He was also at the party we went to. Someone may have introduced him, but I can’t recall his name.”

  “Now I remember. I don’t know who he is either.” My mind shifted back to the subject of discussion before the stranger appeared. “Now, about Lawton. Why are you going to bat for him? Surely your life would be simpler if Johnston did manage to get him fired.”

  “Probably.” Laura flashed a quick grin. “He got me this job, though, and I owe him something for that. Besides, I love his work. Whatever else he is, he’s an amazing writer.” She paused. “When he actually finishes a play, that is.”

  “Is the writing not going well?” The question sounded fatuous to me, given what had ensued on stage earlier, but Laura forestalled me when I tried to explain what I meant.

  “I don’t think it is. I haven’t been around Connor while he’s actually writing a play before.” Laura massaged her temples and stared down at Diesel, who sat looking up at her. She smiled at him as she continued. “He keeps bringing in revisions. Maybe he’s always worked this way, but the plot seems to be turning into a mystery of some kind. He’s never written a mystery before. Plus he’s introduced a new set of characters, so I’m not really sure where he’s going with it.”

  The chatter of returning students interrupted us before I could probe further. I looked out over the auditorium and spotted Connor Lawton ambling along behind the students.

  Laura sighed and set her shoulders. She had seen him, too. As she moved away I heard her say in an undertone, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.”

  TEN

  “Come on, boy. We’ll be in the way here.” I patted Diesel’s head and led him across the stage past the proscenium arch to the stairs. As I settled into an end seat a few rows back, with Diesel getting comfortable in the aisle beside me, I tried to identify the source of Laura’s quotation. I’d heard or read it before, and after a minute or so, I had it. “Henry V. Shakespeare, of co
urse,” I muttered. Diesel meowed in response, as if he were acknowledging I was right.

  Meanwhile the cast had reassembled center stage. With the area bare of any props, even chairs, the space the cast occupied appeared almost desertlike. I couldn’t imagine watching a play without some kind of set. This would be an interesting experience.

  Connor Lawton stood downstage. From my vantage point his face was a placid mask, his stance relaxed. I hoped he could maintain this mood.

  I heard voices behind me, and I turned to see Sarabeth Conley and Ralph Johnston taking seats halfway down the aisle on the other side of the auditorium.

  Laura clapped her hands for silence, and I turned back to watch. When the last snatch of conversation died away, she said, “We’re going to try this again. Remember what we discussed in class about sight-reading. We haven’t had much time to work on that, but do your best.” She turned to Lawton. “Where would you like to start?”

  “Beginning of the third scene.” Lawton crossed his arms across his chest. Pages rustled as the actors found their places. “We’ll start with Ferris.”

  Dead silence followed. One of the students, an attractive brunette, nudged the tall, pudgy young man standing beside her. “That’s you, Toby,” she hissed.

  “Um, right, old man Ferris, that’s me.” Toby was clearly rattled, and he stared like a mesmerized goldfish at Lawton.

  “Take deep breaths, Toby,” Laura said in a firm, but kind, tone. “Center yourself, then start.”

  I saw Lawton shake his head, but he didn’t speak. Toby nodded and I could see the change in his face and body language as he followed Laura’s instructions.

  When he began to speak, I blinked in surprise. Out of his mouth came the quavery voice of an ill, elderly man.

  “I tell you, Henrietta, I’m not shelling out any more of my hard-earned savings on that no-good daughter of yours.”

  The pretty young woman next to Toby responded, her voice sounding surprisingly mature. “She’s your daughter too, Herb. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

  Toby snorted. “Don’t see why as I should own up to begetting that shiftless piece of jailbait.” He paused to gasp for breath.

  “See what happens when you get your dander up?” “Henrietta” shook her head dolefully. “Gives you spasms, and what’s the use of that?”

  Toby gulped air again before he spoke. “That girl’s enough to give a healthy man spasms, much less me. I tell you I’m not giving her—or you—any more money.”

  Another young woman, a chubby blonde, entered the conversation. “But Papa, we can’t put her in jail. All you have to do is pay back what she stole. Surely you don’t want to see your child behind bars?” She emitted a muffled sob. “You can’t do that to my baby sister.”

  “Quit your caterwauling, Lisbeth.” Toby spoke sharply. “You’re so goldarned concerned about Sadie, you pay back the money.”

  “Lisbeth” sobbed again. “I don’t have it. The rent’s way overdue, and it looks like Johnny might get laid off. Papa, please.”

  “Reckon you’ll be begging for money next, because that no-good bastard you married can’t keep a job.” Toby coughed so hard his face turned red.

  “Herb, calm down.” The note of panic in “Henrietta’s” voice sounded real to me.

  Based on what I was hearing now, I’d have to say these young people were reading well, although I was not in the least impressed by Lawton’s “genius.” Was this reading significantly better than what Lawton heard earlier? If that was the case, then perhaps his temper tantrum had energized them somehow. I’d have to ask Laura about that.

  What a shame, though, that what they were reading was so banal.

  “Herb” told his wife to shut up in a crude manner. “Henrietta” uttered his name in shocked protest.

  “I’m fixin’ to go lie down for a spell,” Toby said. He sounded exhausted, his patience at an end. “I don’t want to hear any more about Sadie’s problems. I’m done with her.” He mimed an old man, shuffling out of the room, leaning on a cane.

  “Lisbeth” and “Henrietta” exchanged glances, waiting until the old man left the room. Toby stepped back, and the two young women moved closer together as they continued the scene.

  “Mama, what are we gonna do?” Lisbeth practically sobbed the words out. “Sadie can’t go to jail, she just can’t.”

  I thought the young woman was overdoing the histrionics, and evidently Connor Lawton agreed. He held up a hand. “Hold on a minute.” He pointed at “Lisbeth.” “What’s your name again, doll?”

  The young woman blushed and swallowed. “Um, Elaine, Mr. Lawton.”

  The playwright walked forward, and when he paused beside her, he stood at an angle that allowed me a clear view of his face. I caught a grimace, but then his expression smoothed out. He placed an arm across Elaine’s shoulder. “Elaine, you’re giving me too much. Dial it back a few notches, understand? All that weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth this early on, you’ve got nothing left later on.”

  He paused long enough for Elaine to nod twice before he went on. “Lisbeth, now, remember she’s thirty-two, married, no kids, and Sadie’s like her own child because Mom and Pop are so much older, right? Lisbeth is emotional and not totally wrapped when it comes to Sadie, but you can’t let it all go in this scene. Dial it back a little, like I said. Can you do that for me?”

  Frankly I was surprised by Lawton’s patient tone and demeanor. It almost seemed like a different man had come back from the break.

  Elaine gazed at the playwright like Diesel mesmerized by a bird outside the archive window. After a long moment of silence, she swallowed and said, “Yes, sir.”

  Lawton patted her shoulder. “That’s great, doll.” He moved back downstage and faced the actors. “Right. Take it from where old man Ferris leaves. Hey, Tobe, excellent job by the way. You’ve almost nailed it.”

  Toby blushed and beamed as “Lisbeth” and “Henrietta” prepared to start the scene again. If Lawton kept up “slobbering sugar” like this—what my aunt Dottie would have called it—they’d all adore him and soon forget the earlier tantrum.

  “Lisbeth” repeated her lines in more restrained tones, and Lawton nodded.

  “Henrietta” picked up from her fictional daughter’s lines. “I don’t see much hope. Your father’s made up his mind. You know how he is when he talks like that. Remember your wedding?” She sighed heavily. “Wasn’t nothing on earth going to make him pay for you a decent wedding once he took against Johnny.”

  Could this possibly get any worse? I was no expert, but the average soap opera probably had better writing. But I soon discovered it could get worse.

  “He’s a mean old bastard, and I hate him.” Elaine’s face twisted into an ugly mask. “I wish he’d up and die. Let him join the demons in Hell where he belongs.”

  “Henrietta” drew back her hand and swung it at her daughter’s face. The intended blow became a light tap on the cheek, but Elaine drew back and howled as if she’d been struck hard.

  “Girl, don’t ever let me hear you talking about your father that way. He’s had many a sore trial in his life, and he doesn’t deserve disrepect like that.”

  Before Elaine could respond, Lawton surprised everyone by gesturing wildly with both hands and saying, “Enough, enough.”

  No one onstage moved. They all gaped at the playwright.

  Lawton grabbed his ears and rocked his head from side to side. “God, that’s awful. Freakin’ bloody rank. Sounds like third-rate dinner theater.”

  I definitely agreed with that, and I sought Laura’s face to see her reaction to this outburst. Was Lawton talking about the reading, or was he referring to the words themselves? The pitying glance Laura directed toward Lawton answered my question.

  “It’s okay, everyone.” Laura spoke in an undertone, but thanks to the acoustics of the theater I had no trouble hearing her. “Connor’s not talking about your reading.”

  The actors relaxed visibly
. All the while Laura reassured the cast, Lawton continued to mutter, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  If this was an example of a playwright’s method for creating a play, I decided I was glad I didn’t have an artistic temperament.

  “Everyone, take ten.” Laura made shooing motions with her hands, and the actors moved off the stage in a hurry. A couple cast puzzled glances back at Lawton.

  Laura approached the playwright, who was still absorbed in his frenzy of negative self-criticism. She slapped the top of his head.

  “Ow. That hurt.” Lawton let go of his ears to rub his head and glared at her.

  “I meant it to.” Laura looked and sounded exasperated. “This is not the time for you to get into one of your self-flagellation sessions. You’re freaking out the kids, and frankly I’m pretty sick of it myself.”

  Well done, Laura, I thought. I’d never seen such an emotional grasshopper.

  “Who the bloody hell cares whether they’re used to it?” Lawton threw up his hands. “If they can’t take it, they’re never going to last in the theater. You’re not doing them any favors by babying them.” He shook his head. “Maybe you’re not up to the teaching gig after all.”

  “Nice try, but this isn’t about me, Connor. You wrote the stinking dialogue. And I do mean stinking.” I knew Laura in this mood. She wasn’t about to back down. Would that make Lawton even angrier? Provoke him to violence?

  Diesel was not happy with the loud voices and the tangible tension. He crawled under my legs and tried to hide beneath my seat, but of course he was too big. His tail stuck out between my knees. I scratched his back to reassure him, but right then I was growing more concerned for my daughter. Should I go onstage and interfere before this got any uglier?

  “Yeah, thanks to you, babydoll. You’re my muse, you know that. How can I write anything decent when you’re tearing my heart out?” The fight seemed to have gone out of the playwright.