My hand barely left the lamp switch before I fell asleep—or so it seemed when I woke the next morning to the sound of my alarm. I hadn’t even had to get up during the night to go to the bathroom, and for a man just past fifty-one, that was an accomplishment. I felt much refreshed this morning, I decided. I threw back the covers and sat up on the side of the bed.
Diesel muttered at me but remained in bed while I went to the bathroom. When I emerged to dress sometime later, he was still asleep. “Come on, lazybones,” I said to him. “Time to get up. You don’t need any more beauty sleep.”
He opened his eyes and glared at me, as if to tell me not to be so perky this early in the morning. Then he yawned and rolled over on his back to stretch. I rubbed his tummy, and he warbled for me, his good humor seemingly restored.
Diesel and I breakfasted alone this morning. I had a whole wheat bagel with low-fat cream cheese and coffee, while Diesel had to make do with only his regular food. After I finished my second cup of coffee and the paper, I sat for a moment to review my plans for the day.
Sean would again accompany Laura to campus. She didn’t need to be there until ten and would be done around three. I wanted to go to the public library to check the back issues of the Athena and Memphis newspapers to test my theory about the numbers among Lawton’s notes. If that proved successful and I did find something of interest, I had no idea whether it would have any bearing on Lawton’s death. I had to find out, however, as any good librarian would want to do.
Depending on what I discovered, I might call Kanesha Berry again. Though I didn’t look forward to another conversation with her, I hoped perhaps she might be a little more tolerant.
Right—and Diesel might start speaking French, too.
By the time Diesel and I left the house at ten minutes to nine only Justin had appeared downstairs. We left him glancing through the paper and munching some toast heavily laden with Azalea’s homemade scuppernong jelly. My mouth watered at the sight of that jelly, but I steeled myself against temptation. I had work to do.
At three minutes to nine, Diesel and I stood patiently in front of the unshaded main entrance to the Athena Public Library. The morning was already steamy, and I could feel the sweat trickling down my back.
We didn’t wait long, for which I was thankful. Right on the dot of nine, Teresa Farmer, the head of the reference department and second in command, unlocked the doors and ushered us in. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said in her soft voice. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Good morning to you, too,” I said, and Diesel chirped his greeting. “We’re here to do a little newspaper research this morning.”
Teresa paused for a moment to scratch the cat’s head, then excused herself to put away the keys in her office. Diesel and I greeted the other library staffers we saw on our way to the room that contained the microfilms and readers.
I removed Diesel’s leash and put it on a table. While I did my research, he would probably go visit with his buddies among the library staff. I knew I didn’t have to worry about him here where he was universally adored.
I pulled the page of notes from my pocket and unfolded it. Holding it up, I began to examine the drawers of microfilm to find the ones containing the back issues of the Register. I would start there and then look for the Commercial Appeal. After a quick online check last night, I discovered that the digital archives of the Memphis paper didn’t start until sometime in June of 1990.
The first number was 1-84321 and, if I was correct in my interpretation, that meant page one of the March 21, 1984, issue. I found the appropriate drawer and then the box. Settling down at the microfilm reader, I prepared the film for reading. I was an old hand at this, and I quickly found the page I wanted.
I scanned the headlines. There was a report from the recent city council meeting and a piece on street improvements in the oldest part of town. All run-of-the-mill stuff, and I couldn’t see Lawton being interested in any of it. There was one small headline near the bottom, “Former Mayor Dead at 83.”
According to the brief article, only several sentences long, Hubert Norris, who had served as mayor of Athena for twelve years back in the early 1960s, had died at home at the age of eighty-three.
That didn’t sound promising either, though the name Norris rang a faint bell. Where had I heard it recently?
I glanced at the article again. The survivors mentioned were his wife, a daughter, Sarabeth Conley, and a son, Levi Norris.
That’s why it was familiar. Sarabeth’s father.
This had to be what interested Lawton, since he’d obviously known Sarabeth. But why?
THIRTY-FOUR
There were no other details about former mayor Norris’s death. The next issue indicated was two days later, the twenty-third. A Friday, as it turned out. Hoping for further information, I scrolled down the pages until I came to the first page of the issue.
Hubert Norris’s death was the main headline: “Tragic Death in Norris Family.” I noted with some surprise that the byline belonged to Ray Appleby. I hadn’t realized he was working for the Register that long ago.
That explained, however, why Lawton had the reporter’s name in his notes. Had he talked to Appleby about this? I would have to check with the reporter, though I wasn’t keen on revealing my connections with Lawton’s murder. I would have to, though, because I doubted Appleby would simply open up to me out of the goodness of his heart. He was a seasoned and shrewd reporter, accustomed to digging up information, not giving it away.
Norris’s death did indeed sound tragic. He had drowned in his bath. According to Appleby, a “tearful Mrs. Norris” confided that “Hubert found it relaxing to soak in the tub with a glass or two of whisky.” But “nothing like this ever happened before,” Mrs. Norris went on to say.
I winced at that latter statement, knowing that people will often say nonsensical things when in shock or grieving.
Appleby didn’t come right out and say it, but the inference was clear. Hubert Norris had had too much to drink, fallen asleep in the bathtub, and drowned. Did he have a drinking problem? I wondered.
I couldn’t recall anything about the family other than Sarabeth’s babysitting me when I was a child. My parents didn’t socialize with the Norrises from what I could remember, nor could I recall hearing Aunt Dottie talk much about them. By the time Hubert Norris drowned in the bathtub, I was married and living in Houston, the proud father of an infant son.
I had several sources for Norris family history, however. Helen Louise was in France at the time of Norris’s death, I calculated, but she still might know something. Azalea and my friend Melba Gilley could fill in any necessary blanks, as could Ray Appleby, if he were so inclined.
But why was Connor Lawton so interested in Hubert Norris’s death? It seemed like an ordinary tragedy and not terribly useful to a playwright.
Unless, of course, Lawton thought there was more to the story. But what could there be? Maybe that Norris’s death wasn’t an accident?
Hold on, I told myself.
Before I went too far down the road of idle speculation, I decided, I should check out the rest of the page references from Lawton’s notes.
I had to pull several more boxes of microfilm from the cabinets, including some of the Commercial Appeal issues, but once I had read through them all I had a better understanding of Lawton’s interest in the Norris family.
As I read I jotted down notes on the pad I’d brought with me. My eyes were tired and my neck slightly sore by the time I finished with the microfilm. I relaxed and massaged my neck while I read through my notes.