Time to get back to work, I decided. What had I been doing before Diesel alerted me to the presence of the strange envelope?
Ah, yes, I was reading the draft of Lawton’s play. I headed back to the den, this time with Diesel on my heels. We settled down on the sofa, me confined to a small portion of it on one end while Diesel stretched out to occupy the rest. He soon dozed off, curled on his back with his front paws in the air. I resumed my reading.
I didn’t spend much time on the portion of the play I thought was based on Ralph and Magda Johnston. There didn’t seem to be much new that I could glean from those pages. Instead I focused on the sections that featured the Ferris family. The more I thought about it, the more I figured it was obvious that the “Ferrises” were really the Norrises.
Based on Lawton’s notes and the articles from the two newspapers, I had to conclude that Lawton was deliberately writing about the real family, thinly disguised. But why? I kept coming back to that question.
How did Lawton know so much about the history of the Norrises? He had spent his early years in Athena, I knew, but hadn’t he left when he was only four or five? I thought that was what someone told me. So what was the connection?
Pictures of Connor Lawton flashed in my head—Lawton at the Theater Department party, both inside and outside the house. I had puzzled over his behavior at the time, and that might be the clue I needed.
On a hunch I got up and went to the desk and fired up my computer. I waited, not very patiently, for it to finish all the preliminary gyrations it had to go through before I could use it.
When it was ready I opened my browser and typed in the address to the public library website. From there I could link to the information I wanted: Athena County property tax records.
I wanted to follow a hunch to find out what, if any, property the Norris family might still own in Athena. Then I would try to find out where the Lawtons had lived in Athena when Connor Lawton was a child. The answer might be that simple, that the Norrises and the Lawtons were neighbors back then.
After I found the link I wanted, I clicked and was taken to the property tax database. I could search by parcel number or by name. Since I had no idea what the parcel number in question was, I put in the name Norris.
There were eight results, but none of the Norrises was Hubert or Levi or even Sarabeth. Nor were the addresses ones I expected.
Now what? I thought for a moment, then typed in Conley, Sarabeth’s married name.
This time there were seventeen results, Conley apparently being a more common name than Norris, at least in Athena.
I scanned the listings and then stopped at one for a Joseph Conley. The address was 1744 Rosemary Street. Why did that sound familiar?
I puzzled over it for a moment, then I had it—Ralph Johnston’s house, the site of the Theater Department party.
At least I had thought it was his house, but evidently it belonged to Sarabeth and her husband instead.
Lawton also had it in his notes, so it meant something to him.
I decided to follow my hunch further. I pulled out my cell phone and punched in the number for the public library. The very person I wanted to speak to answered. “Hi, Teresa, this is Charlie. How are you?”
We exchanged pleasantries, then I asked, “Are you really busy right now?”
“No, not terribly,” Teresa replied. “What can I do for you?”
“I need to check something in one of the old phone books, if you wouldn’t mind. I could come down there and do it myself, but I’m too impatient.” I laughed.
“Not a problem. What year or years do you need?”
I did a quick calculation. “1982 or 1983 should do it.”
“I’m going to put you on hold while I go pull them. Be right back.” Soft music played in my ear.
The old phone books resided in cabinets in the same room with the microfilm, so I knew it would take Teresa a minute or two to retrieve the requested items.
I glanced over at the sofa. Diesel was still asleep. I smiled as I turned back to the computer.
Teresa came back on the line. “Got them both. What are you looking for?”
“A family named Lawton who might have lived on Rosemary Street back then.”
“Okay, I’ll check.” I heard Teresa put the phone down and begin to riffle through the pages.
Would my hunch pan out?
THIRTY-SIX
While I waited for Teresa to give me an answer, I drummed the fingers of my free hand on the desk. The habit used to drive my late wife crazy, and I gradually trained myself not to do it anymore. I frowned and stilled my hand. When had I started doing it again?
Probably nerves, I decided. Before I could ponder it any further, Teresa spoke in my ear.
“Here it is, Charlie. Declan Lawton, 1742 Rosemary Street. He’s the only Lawton in the book. Is that what you were expecting?”
“Yes. Thank you so much, Teresa.” We chatted a moment longer, then I ended the call and stuck the phone back in my pocket.
Since there was only one listing for a Lawton in the phone book of the time, Declan had to be Connor’s father. That meant the Lawtons lived right next door to the Norrises when Connor was a child.
I found a blank piece of paper and a pencil and jotted down the name and address. I stared at the page for a moment before I put the pencil down.
Okay, so I proved that the Lawtons and the Norrises were neighbors at one time. Also that Sarabeth still owned her parents’ house. What did that do for me?
I flashed on Connor, the night of the party, standing on the sidewalk in front of 1742 Rosemary Street and staring at it. Was he remembering the early years of his life? Or puzzled by a house that seemed strangely familiar?
Then I recalled his odd actions in the kitchen of Sarabeth’s house, how he had stared at the cabinet and then gone to open it and peer inside. Was that another memory surfacing? A sense of déjà vu on Connor’s part would explain that episode, I now realized.
How much had he remembered of his childhood in Athena? He had been four or five when his family left. Someone told me that, but now I couldn’t recall whom.
Laura was the only person I could ask about Connor’s memories, and I hoped like anything he had talked to her about them. Otherwise I couldn’t go much further with my theory.
Well, not really a theory, I had to admit to myself. I still hadn’t figured out the point of this. Connor’s early childhood in Athena might have nothing to do with his murder.
But I guess I’d read too many mysteries—like every one of Ross Macdonald’s books for a start—in which the semi-distant past weighed heavily on the present. What if that were the case here?
I glanced at my watch. A few minutes before three. Sean said he and Laura would be home around three. I debated calling Laura now because I was in such a hurry to ask my questions.
Sean and Laura’s arrival home moments later saved me the trouble. I noticed Diesel perk up on the sofa just before I heard Sean calling out from the hallway, “Yoo-hoo, Dad, we’re home. Where are you?”
“Come on, boy,” I told the cat, but I could have saved my breath. He was off the sofa and out the door practically before the final syllable was out of my mouth.
When I stepped into the hallway, I raised my voice and responded to Sean. “Here I am. I was in the den working.”
“We’ll be in the kitchen.” Sean’s voice echoed down the hallway.
Laura sat at the table, Diesel already beside her, warbling away, and Sean had the fridge door open, head inside. He pulled out two beers and popped the caps before handing one to his sister. Spotting me, he asked, “Something to drink, Dad?”
“Some iced tea, I think, but I’ll fix it.” I waved him away, and he sat in his usual place at the table.