For a brief moment I felt guilty—as if it were my fault the house had been damaged. I doubted that was Azalea’s intent, but I knew how close she and my late aunt had been. Azalea took the care of this house seriously, considering it her duty to Aunt Dottie. Sometimes I felt I was here only on sufferance and that if Azalea thought I should go, I’d have to.
“What you need is a good breakfast.” With that announcement Azalea headed to the refrigerator. “I’m gone whip up some pancakes. You want bacon or sausage with ’em?”
“Bacon, please.” I could never resist Azalea’s bacon, fried to crisp perfection every time.
Plaintive meows sounded nearby, and I turned to see Diesel trot into the kitchen. He came to me and put his front paws on my leg, then butted his head against my side as if determined to make me notice him.
“Good morning, boy,” I said as I scratched between his ears. “Did you take good care of Laura last night?”
As Diesel chirped in response, I heard a snort from Azalea’s direction. I grinned. “Diesel, you tell Azalea you understand every word I say and that you’re a good watch-cat.”
Diesel chirped a few times more, and I watched Azalea’s back as she stood at the counter, mixing pancake batter. Her head shook back and forth three times, and I could imagine her expression. I thought she secretly found Diesel entertaining, but she would never admit it.
“I think I’ll go get the paper.” I stood as I made my announcement. Diesel, instead of following me to the front door, ambled toward the utility room and his litter box.
The sun was bright, and the day already hot when I opened the front door. The paper lay a few feet down the walk, and as I headed for it I saw the police car parked on the street in front of my house. After I retrieved the paper, I stood for a moment and watched the car. The officer inside saw me and inclined his head. I nodded back, then turned and headed inside again.
Reassured by the police presence outside, I felt a little lighter of heart as I returned to the kitchen. I informed Azalea that our police guard was on duty, and she nodded to acknowledge that she heard me.
I opened the paper—the Commercial Appeal from Memphis—and began reading. Diesel returned and made himself comfortable by my chair. He knew pancakes were in the offing and hoped to score a few bites. I really had become lax about letting him have human food, although I consoled myself with the knowledge that, with his size and appetite, he ate far more of his own food than he did treats from the table. He had regular checkups with his vet, and Dr. Romano was always pleased with his general state of health. She did remind me, though, to keep the treats to a minimum.
By the time Diesel and I finished our pancakes and Azalea started on the laundry in the utility room, none of the other occupants of the house had yet appeared. I went upstairs to dress and brush my teeth, then grabbed my cell phone before Diesel and I went out back to inspect the damage to the house.
Diesel hunted in the flowerbeds while I stood in the hot morning sun and began to sweat. I shaded my eyes with my hand and started my examination.
The porch ran the whole length of the back of the house, and the fire had started to the left of it on the west side. The white paint had blackened and bubbled in a mostly circular patch about four feet wide. Thanks to Sean’s quick response, the fire hadn’t had time to gain hold. From what I could see, it hadn’t managed to burn through the wood into the interior.
Feeling vastly relieved, I stepped back and for the first time noticed the state of the flowerbeds. The firemen had trampled several azaleas, and the plants would have to be replaced. Thankful the loss wasn’t much worse, I retreated to the shade of the porch to cool off and call my insurance agent and then the college library to let them know I wouldn’t be in today. I was lucky with the latter call, because my friend Melba, assistant to the library director, was out of the office, and I reached her voice mail instead. I simply told her I wasn’t feeling very well and was staying home. She’d hear the truth soon enough. Right now I didn’t want to spend an hour on the phone with her while she pumped me for every little detail.
By lunchtime the insurance agent had come and gone, plus one of my high school classmates, a contractor, responded to my call and came to give an estimate on the time and cost for the repairs. My contractor friend said he could have the work done within two weeks, and that sounded fine.
I lunched alone, except for Diesel. Laura had a class to teach this morning, and Sean went along as her bodyguard. Stewart and Justin both had classes as well, and Dante went with Stewart. He was now accustomed to accompanying Stewart on campus, and Stewart claimed the dog was much better behaved than any of his students.
While I enjoyed Azalea’s chicken salad, an alternate recipe that included sliced grapes and walnuts, Diesel sat by me and meowed occasionally for a bit of chicken. With the mundane matters of insurance and repair fairly well settled, I was able to concentrate on the ongoing threat to Laura.
I was tempted to go to the sheriff’s department and insist on seeing Kanesha. I was impatient to discover whether she had read Lawton’s vicious letter about Ralph Johnston’s play. There was also the matter of Lawton’s affair with Magda Johnston. Kanesha had to know about that by now.
And what about Damitra Vane? Those e-mails shed a revolting light on Lawton’s relationship with her. From what I had seen so far, she had a temper on her, as my late mother would have said. I could see her killing Lawton in a rage over his obscene insults. If she truly believed he was in love with her, his true opinion of her might have pushed her too far.
The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that I needed to seek Kanesha out right away.
I cleared the table and washed my hands. “Come on, boy,” I said to Diesel. “We’re going to visit the sheriff’s department.”
Diesel headed straight for the back door and stopped under the rack on the wall from which his harness and leash hung. He knew what going meant. I smiled as I bent to fit him into the harness.
I had my hand on the back door when I heard the front doorbell ring. I hesitated a moment. Azalea would answer it, and I could sneak out and be on my way to the sheriff’s department.
Then common sense asserted itself, and I headed for the front door. Diesel padded along with me, and I realized I still held the leash.
I peered out the peephole, and there stood Kanesha, scowling as she rang the bell again. I opened the door and stood aside.
“Afternoon, Deputy. I was just about to come to see you.”
Kanesha stepped inside, and I closed the door.
“Come on in the kitchen. Would you like something to drink?” I turned and took a couple of steps, expecting her to follow me.
“Mr. Harris, this isn’t a social call.”
There was a note in her voice that gave me a bad feeling. I turned back to face her. “What’s happened?”
“Damitra Vane is dead.”
THIRTY
“Dead?” I repeated the word as I tried to make sense of it. Beside me, Diesel warbled. The sudden tension made him uneasy, and I patted his head. “Murdered?”
Kanesha nodded. “No doubt this time.”
I stared at her for a moment. Then I wheeled toward the kitchen. “I need to sit down.” Diesel trotted with me. I didn’t look back to see whether Kanesha followed.
As I sat I realized my legs were shaky. Diesel hunched up close against my legs, and I stroked his back and murmured to him. All the while my brain was trying to digest the murder of that poor woman.
“What’s going on here?” Azalea’s voice intruded on my self-absorption. “What you done said to Mr. Charlie?”
Another time I might have been amused at seeing Azalea glaring at her daughter and Kanesha looking guilty and irritated at the same time.
“I’m here on official business, Mama.” Kanesha met her mother’s accusing gaze head-on now. “This is between Mr. Harris and me.”
Azalea snorted in derisory fashion. “Still don’t mean you come
in here and upset a man. Look how pale he be.” Her tone turned solicitous. “You need something to buck you up, Mr. Charlie? You still got some of that brandy from Christmas.”
I smiled, hoping to ease the situation. “Thank you, Azalea, I’m okay. Kanesha’s—I mean, Deputy Berry’s—news startled me, that’s all.” Diesel was scrunched under the table now, his head on my feet. Poor kitty. I almost wished I could join him. Being the bone of contention between these two women was no fun.
“I need to speak to Mr. Harris alone.” Kanesha waited, but Azalea didn’t budge. “Please, Mama.”
“You holler if you need anything.” Azalea shot me a pointed glance before she left the kitchen. Moments later I heard her moving heavily up the stairs.
I didn’t dare look at Kanesha for a few minutes. I actually felt sorry for her. Having to deal with her mother under these circumstances had to be humiliating. Azalea had, not so long ago, confided in me that she didn’t think police work was a suitable job for her daughter. She had wanted Kanesha to go to medical school instead. Her daughter, however, was determined to follow her own path.
At the time I’d wondered idly whether Kanesha might have gone to medical school or even law school on her own if her mother hadn’t tried to push her in a particular direction. Azalea was one of the most forceful personalities I’d ever encountered. Had she grown up under different conditions she probably would have been at the helm of a Fortune 500 company by now.
Kanesha was every bit as stubborn and opinionated as her mother from everything I’d seen. Their relationship had to be uneasy at best.
I risked a glance at Kanesha. Her expression was as stony as ever.
“Please sit down, Deputy.” I gestured to a chair. “What do you need from me? Or did you come simply to inform me of Miss Vane’s death?”
Kanesha sat before she answered. She pulled a notebook and pen from her pocket. “Give me a timetable of what happened here last night.”
I could have refrigerated meat by putting it next to her right now, I decided. It wouldn’t do to annoy her.
I nodded, then took a moment to organize my thoughts before I responded. Under the table, Diesel muttered and shifted position. I tried to reassure him by rubbing his side with my foot. He quieted.
“I went to bed before the others, except for Laura, I think. Sean went out to the porch to have a cigar and fell asleep there after he finished it.” I narrated the rest of the events while Kanesha jotted notes. She didn’t look at me the entire time.
When I finished, she stared at her notebook for a moment. “I still have facts to verify, but I’d say y’all are in the clear. At least in Miss Vane’s death.”
Did she throw that last statement in just to be spiteful? “Surely the same person is responsible for both her murder and Lawton’s.” It didn’t make any sense otherwise.
Now she looked at me, and I didn’t bother to suppress a scowl. “It’s likely, but the methods were entirely different. Miss Vane’s throat was cut.”
A gruesome image bloomed in my mind, and I shook my head in a vain effort to dispel it. “That’s horrible.”
“Yes, it was.” Kanesha stood.
I stared up at her. “Why do you say we’re in the clear in her murder?”
“By the time the maid found her around nine this morning, she’d been dead about seven hours, give or take an hour, according to the preliminary estimate.”
“While we were all in the midst of dealing with the fire department and the police,” I said.
Kanesha nodded. “It’s possible someone slipped away during the confusion. The hotel’s only a few minutes from here, especially running. But I don’t think that happened. Whoever did it would have had blood on him or would have to change clothes. Did you notice anything like that?”
“Certainly not.” Even in my dazed state I would have noticed if a member of the household disappeared for that long. Besides, we were all together—and stayed together—shortly after the fire department arrived, first out in the front yard and then in the kitchen. I repeated that aloud to Kanesha.
She nodded again and turned to go, but I had a question for her. “Did your computer expert find any evidence of tampering with Lawton’s thumb drive?”
Slowly she faced me, her expression unreadable. “No.” She turned and left the kitchen. I didn’t bother to see her to the door.
Frustrating woman. I sighed and wondered how this would all have played out had I talked to her at the sheriff’s department instead. Easier on the nerves, I decided, both hers and mine.
I deplored the murder of poor Damitra Vane, but I was happy that Kanesha didn’t consider any of us a suspect—and that the thumb drive was clean, so to speak.
I didn’t look forward to telling Laura about the death of her erstwhile colleague and former rival. She hadn’t liked the woman, but I knew she would be badly upset by the news.
I glanced at the clock. It was nearly two, and I didn’t expect Laura—and Sean—home until after five. The news could wait till then. I doubted they would hear it from another source before they came home.
Before they left this morning Sean told me he had finished printing the contents of Lawton’s files and left the papers in the den for me. I decided now was a good time to delve further into them for more evidence. With Damitra Vane out of the picture—I winced at the unintentional pun—Ralph and Magda Johnston were definitely center stage.
“Come on, boy.” Diesel crawled out from under the table and gazed up at me. He meowed, and I patted his head. “I know, sweet boy, things were tense there for a while. But she’s gone now, and we can go have some nice quiet time to ourselves.”
I realized he still wore his harness, and I removed it before we headed for the den. He chirped to thank me.
The den, the room next to the living room and down the hall, was as much my personal library as anything. Bookshelves lined all the walls. A few of them were in place before I moved back to Athena. The rest I added—or rather, my contractor classmate’s crew did. This room was my refuge, and I came in here when I wanted to surround myself with the warm and contented feeling my books gave me.
Diesel liked the room as much as I did. He had his special place here—an old afghan, knitted by my late wife, spread on an old leather sofa. He would stretch out and snooze at one end while I sat at the other, my feet on a hassock, and read or—increasingly often, I had to admit—napped.
While Diesel rooted around in the afghan and arranged it to his satisfaction, I turned on a couple of lamps and then went to the desk to examine the stacks of paper Sean had left.
One pile appeared to contain more letters and probably e-mails as well. A second one was obviously the play Lawton was working on when he died. A third group, and much the smallest, seemed to be notes on various things. I glanced at them, but they didn’t catch my interest.
Suddenly I recalled what Laura had revealed about Lawton’s strange comment to her. “The play’s the thing.”
How could I have forgotten that?
I carried that stack to the sofa with me. Diesel was settled in, already stretched out, drowsing, when I got comfortable on the bit of sofa left for me and began to read. Diesel’s hind feet and tail twitched against me from time to time, but I was used to this. It stopped when he fell asleep.
I read for perhaps half an hour, trying to make sense of the play. Though the scenes and acts were labeled in sequence, they seemed disconnected to me, almost as if Lawton had been writing two plays rather than one. The quality of the writing was erratic as well. In some of it I saw the brilliance that Laura kept insisting Lawton possessed. In other parts, well, the kindest word I could think of was dull. How Lawton got from dull to brilliant I had no idea.
The brilliant scenes captured my attention for an even more important reason than their quality. If Ralph or Magda Johnston had read any of this, they might well have killed Lawton to keep the play from ever being read, let alone produced.
THIRTY-ONE
&
nbsp; There were echoes of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? in Lawton’s untitled play, but the characters Rafe and Maggie were distinctly their own and not pale imitations of George and Martha. This was distinctly a roman à clef, however. I easily recognized Ralph and Magda Johnston from Lawton’s vicious portrayal of them and their turbulent relationship, and I hardly knew them.
Had the playwright seriously thought he would be able to produce this play? Without being sued for libel?
Lawton was arrogant, as I well knew, but this was arrant stupidity.
Plus it was a solid motive for murder.
There were unflattering portraits of minor characters as well, including Sarabeth Conley, thinly disguised as Sally Conway, but Lawton directed most of his vitriol at the main characters.
Surely once Kanesha read this she would concentrate her investigation on the Johnstons. What more compelling motive could she find?
Then I remembered Damitra Vane.
What reason could the Johnstons have for killing her?
The obvious answer to that was that Damitra Vane either had known or seen something that could directly implicate either Ralph or Magda.
Had the Johnstons worked together on the murders? I figured Ralph would have to have killed Damitra Vane. I didn’t think Magda would be strong enough to cut Damitra’s throat, not without significant resistance.
Another sickening image forced itself into my head—Magda Johnston assisting her husband as he savagely wielded the knife.
For a moment I felt like I needed to throw up, but I focused on deep, centering breaths, and the feeling passed.
I pulled out my cell phone. I hesitated briefly but then speed-dialed the sheriff’s department. Kanesha would probably chew me up one side and down the other for calling her, but I had to be certain she read this, and soon.
File M for Murder Page 18
