“So who was the fat witch”—Sean grinned slightly at the euphemism—“he was talking about?”
“Sarabeth Conley,” Laura and I said in unison.
“Had to be,” I continued on my own. “She’s tall and heavy, and she gave him a dressing-down on Monday, right there on stage. He seemed a little intimidated by her, too. Plus, her family was probably the one he stayed with.”
“She did act like she knew him,” Laura said. “I wasn’t around the two of them together, except maybe twice, but she wasn’t intimidated by him like everyone else seemed to be.”
“If she used to babysit him when he lived here, she probably wasn’t.” Sean laughed. “Like Azalea, for example. Remember that summer you and I came and stayed with Aunt Dottie for two weeks while Mom and Dad went to England? I was, what, eleven? And you would have been nine.”
A shadow passed over Laura’s face at the mention of her mother, but she managed a smile. “I’d forgotten about that, but you’re right. Once someone’s cleaned your snotty nose and supervised your bath, I guess they don’t always see you as an adult.”
I cleared my throat to get rid of a sudden lump. “Another question, sweetheart. Do you remember the context of that statement Connor made?”
“You mean what prompted him to say that about Sarabeth?” Laura asked.
“Exactly.” I of course couldn’t prove it, but I was sure now that it was Sarabeth Connor had been referring to with his rude comment.
“He was talking about the new direction he was going with the play. He had started with one set of characters, but then he decided to switch and write about different ones instead.” Laura shook her head. “I asked him why, and all he could tell me was that he felt like he had to. This story was coming to him, kind of like memories, and he just had to write about them. He wasn’t sure why.”
Sean snorted. “Probably just the bourbon talking.”
Laura looked thoughtful. “I was inclined to think that at first. But Connor said that, whenever he sat down to write, these things kind of poured out. It was slow at first, but the longer he was in Athena, the more often it happened.” She glanced at me. “Does that make sense to you?”
“It’s starting to,” I said. My amorphous idea was finally beginning to coalesce into something substantive. “Repressed memories.”
Sean and Laura looked at each other, then at me. Sean spoke first. “So you think he was writing about things that really happened? To him?”
I nodded. “I read through the play, and I thought the two sets of characters—I mean the fact that there were two sets of characters—was odd. It seemed like a very disjointed way to tell a story, because there was no indication that the story lines would connect. Then, once I found out that Connor lived next door to Sarabeth and her family as a child, I had this vague notion that the second set of characters might be connected to the Norrises. Norris was Sarabeth’s maiden name.”
“And the family in play is named Ferris.” Laura nodded. “And the older daughter in the family is named Lisbeth. Sarabeth, Lisbeth. Norris, Ferris.”
“That makes sense,” Sean said. “The similarity of those names can’t be simple coincidence.”
“I don’t think they are,” I said.
“Does Sarabeth have a younger sister?” Laura asked.
“No, a younger brother, Levi Norris. He’s the man you and I spoke to briefly on Monday. Remember the man who came from backstage and asked us if we’d seen Sarabeth?”
Laura nodded at me, and I continued. “The younger daughter in the play is in trouble, about to go to jail because of something she did. The father refuses to shell out any money to help her, and the older sister is very angry about it.”
“Do you know anything about Levi Norris?” I could see that Sean was intrigued by this, and with his lawyer’s brain he was quickly making the connections.
“He’s been in trouble with the law numerous times,” I said. “I found some odd notations among Connor’s notes, and eventually I figured out they were references to newspaper articles.” I offered them a brief rundown of my search through the newspaper archives at the library. At mention of the library, Diesel head-butted my thigh again, and I responded with some scratching of his head. He rewarded me with contented rumbling.
“Then Connor was writing about an incident that happened in the Norris family.” Sean drained the last of his beer and set the bottle aside. “An embarrassing incident it sounds like, but surely old news. People in Athena already know about the son’s brushes with the law.”
“Of course they do. In a town like this, everyone always knows.” I could see the point Sean was attempting to make.
Evidently Laura did, too. “Even if it is old news that everybody knows, that doesn’t mean the family would want to see it brought up again. Particularly onstage in front of the whole town.”
“Yeah, I see your point,” Sean said. “But surely, Dad, you’re not thinking that’s a motive for murder, just to stop the play from being performed.”
“That’s only because you haven’t read the play.” Laura rubbed her nose. “Dad and I have. Lisbeth in the play is pretty angry with her father because he has the money to solve the problem but refuses. She says at some point that if he was dead, there wouldn’t be a problem.”
I ran quickly through my memories of what I’d read. “Furthermore, in one scene Lisbeth tells her sister not to worry, she’s figured out how to solve all their problems. Then she says something to the effect that their father won’t ever say no to them again.”
“Is Mr. Norris still living?” Sean leaned forward eagerly. “I bet he’s not.”
“He’s not. I found his obituary. It was one of the pages Connor had listed.”
“When did he die?” Laura asked.
“March of 1984. He had been mayor of Athena at one time, and he died at home. There was an investigation, and the eventual conclusion was that it was an accident. He drowned in the bathtub. According to his wife, he liked to soak in the tub and drink whisky.”
“The inference being that he had too much to drink, passed out, and drowned.” Sean shrugged. “What’s so mysterious about that? It’s not very smart to get drunk and soak in the tub.”
“No, it’s not,” I said. “The strange thing was, the investigation into his death went on for three months.”
“There must have been something about it, then, that made the police think it wasn’t a simple accident.” Laura frowned. “There was nothing in Connor’s play about the father’s actual death.”
“No, but there were some cryptic notes.” I tried to recall what I’d read. “Oh, yes, Connor had the words bathtub, ankles, and bruises in his notes, along with question marks.”
“I don’t see the significance,” Laura said. “Well, bathtub, of course, since Mr. Norris died in the bathtub.”
“I think I may have the answer to that,” I said. A picture was slowly forming in my mind. I knew I had read about a similar situation in a murder mystery at some point.
“What is it?” Sean’s impatient question brought me out of my reverie.
“A way to murder someone and probably get away with it, because it would look like an accident.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
“What is this method?”
Once again I’d fallen silent, picturing what I’d read in my mind, and Sean’s question prompted me to explain aloud.
“I can’t remember which book I read it in,” I said. “But what you do if you want to kill someone in the bathtub is grab him or her by the ankles and pull up until the victim’s head is underwater.”