“That I’ll agree with. But the play can only be considered a motive if either or both of the Johnstons were aware of its content.”
“True,” I said. “I’ve thought about that. Frankly I think there’s enough motive for Ralph, in particular, even without foreknowledge of the play.”
“Agreed.” Sean thought for a moment. “Plus, who’s to say Magda Johnston didn’t snoop around on Lawton’s computer at some point.”
“Or Damitra Vane, for that matter. I wonder what she knew—or saw, perhaps—that put her in danger? Maybe she had read the play and said something that alerted the Johnstons.”
“Possible,” Sean said. “But do you know if she ever met either of them? If she didn’t meet them, I can’t see them having a reason for getting rid of her. Why would they consider someone they’d never met a threat?”
“You’re right.” I thought for a moment. Something niggled at the back of my mind. It had to do with Damitra Vane. What was it?
Sean didn’t speak, evidently aware of my effort to concentrate.
A vision of a gold earring flashed in my mind, and I had it. “Damitra Vane visited Lawton before he died. That earring of hers was found under his body.”
“Yes,” Sean said. “And how does that connect her to the Johnstons?”
“It might not,” I had to admit. “But if she realized she’d left it behind and went back to Lawton’s apartment, she could have seen or heard something then that would implicate the Johnstons. Maybe she saw one or both of them coming out of his apartment, and they saw her. She was hard to overlook.”
“Again, possible.” Sean frowned. “There are still too many maybes in this. The dots need to be connected, and I guess Kanesha Berry will have to be the one to do it.”
“No doubt she will.” I shrugged. “She’s read at least part of the play. I called her about it.”
“Let me guess: She was thrilled to have your help.” Sean quirked an eyebrow at me as he spoke.
“As much as ever.” I pushed back from the table and went to the fridge. “Time to figure out dinner. I don’t know about you, but I need a break from thinking about murder, plus I’m hungry.”
“Sounds good to me,” Sean said with a laugh. “What can I do?”
As I expected to, I found a note from Azalea on the door of the fridge. “Not much. There’s a roast in the oven, with potatoes and carrots, and green beans on the stove. All it needs is warming up.”
“Are you ready to have dinner now?” Sean glanced at his watch. “It’s just about five-thirty. A little early.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. I’m hungry, but I can wait. Let’s give Laura another hour, and we’ll eat around six-thirty.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Sean stood and stretched. “In the meantime I think I’ll catch up on e-mail. I’ll be on the back porch if you need me.”
I nodded, and he disappeared—probably headed up to his room to fetch his laptop and a cigar from the large humidor he kept there.
My noble intentions about dinner aside, I was still hungry. I checked the cheese drawer in the fridge and found one of those small, individually wrapped cheeses that I loved. One of those would satisfy me until it was time for dinner.
I unwrapped it, removed the wax covering, and disposed of the waste. Nibbling at my cheese I wandered back to the den, intent on examining more of Lawton’s files. I was pretty convinced now, perhaps against reason, that one or both of the Johnstons were guilty of double murder. There could be more evidence—although I wasn’t really clear on what it might be—in Lawton’s other files. I might as well have a go at them.
I popped the last bit of cheese in my mouth as I picked up the small stack of papers that appeared to be a miscellany of notes of various kinds. As I settled on the sofa, I glanced to the side, as if expecting Diesel to be there in his usual place. The spot was bare, of course, and the sofa suddenly felt much larger. I smiled. My cat managed to take up four-fifths of the space when he spread out on it, but I’d rather be crowded than not, I decided.
I figured the first two pages were random thoughts that Lawton recorded, possible ideas for other plays or scenes in the current play. One line read simply “Rolf—Rafe—Rory—Rand—Rich—Rick.” Potential names for the character who ended up as Rafe in the play, I supposed. Other notes were more cryptic, like “cabinet?” or “arrest record.” They meant nothing to me.
After a couple more pages of such random words—random to me, anyway—I found something that sparked a memory. Lawton had recorded “1744 Rosemary,” and that, I recalled, was the address of the Johnstons’ house, the scene of the party I had attended with Laura. What was the significance of that, amidst all these other notes? It seemed an odd place to record an address.
I turned the page. More cryptic notes. The capital letters “ADR,” followed by strings of numbers, like “1-84321” and “1-84323.” I scanned the page. There were perhaps ten numbers in all before a new heading, more capital letters, “MCA,” with several strings of numbers following them.
I stared at the page for a minute or so, trying to understand what they could mean. I couldn’t come up with anything and went on to the next page. There was more of what seemed like gibberish to me, words like “bathtub,” “ankles,” and “bruises?” Further down the page I spotted what looked like a name, “R. Appleby,” followed by numbers that translated into a local phone number after I stared at them for a moment.
Appleby, I thought. Why is that familiar?
Of course. That reporter for the local newspaper, Ray Appleby. Why would Lawton have his name and number? Maybe he was looking for PR for himself and his play. I could easily see him cultivating Appleby, hoping for a profile in the local paper. Anything to get some attention.
He certainly had attention now—national, perhaps even international. He was highly regarded enough as a playwright, I reckoned, to warrant media attention from all over the place.
Now that I thought about it, wasn’t it odd that Appleby hadn’t approached me or my family about Lawton’s death? He had been pretty quick in the past to call on a hunt for news items with the other murder cases I’d been a part of.
Perhaps he didn’t know yet that any of the Harris family was involved in the investigation. I hoped it would stay that way. Appleby seemed to be a decent guy, but the less I had to do with the press, the happier I would be. I could see the headlines now, along the lines of “Local Man Thinks He’s Sherlock Holmes” or some other such nonsense.
My cell phone rang, and I pulled it out of my pocket. Helen Louise was calling.
“Hello there, how are you?”
“Hi, Charlie. Taking a short break.” I could hear noise in the background, the usual sounds of her bakery, with customers enjoying themselves. “Getting ready for the evening. I just wanted to call and let you know I finished my ad for the paper, and it will start running tomorrow.”
“That’s excellent news.” I hoped she was imagining my happy smile. “Fingers crossed that you get some great applicants right away.”
“That would be lovely. I’m more than ready for some time off.”
I could hear the tiredness in her voice. She worked awfully hard, and I was delighted that she might soon be able to slow down a bit and have more time for us to spend together. I told her that, and she chuckled.
“If this works out as well as I hope,” she said, “you might get tired of me hanging around all the time.”
“Never,” I assured her. And with that one word, I realized that my feelings for her were much stronger than I had been willing to admit to myself before now. I felt a sudden lump in my throat and couldn’t speak.
Intuitive as always, Helen Louise was quick to respond. “The same for me, mon petit chou.” The warmth in her voice touched me.