Connor Lawton uttered an obscenity in a loud voice and jumped up from the sofa. He glared at Laura and Frank for a moment, but they appeared not to notice him. Connor’s face reddened, and he took two steps toward Laura’s group.
Connor looked furious. I thought I might have to intervene before the situation got out of hand. Instead, the playwright turned and brushed past me into the hall. Moments later the front door slammed.
Personally, I hoped he didn’t come back. I’d had about as much of Connor Lawton as I could take for one night. The party would be much less tense without his brooding presence.
FIVE
The women Connor abandoned drifted away from the sofa, all except the heavyset woman in the caftan. She sat down and gazed about her. Something seemed familiar about her face. She caught my eye and beckoned me with a smile.
She patted the sofa beside her. “Please join me.” She waited until I was seated to continue. “I recognize you, but you probably don’t remember me.” She gazed expectantly into my eyes.
She wore her gray hair in a bob cut an inch below her ears, and her hazel eyes focused intently on me. Her face was bare of makeup, with frown lines etched deep in her forehead and a mole high on her right cheek. From this close vantage point I saw that her caftan was decorated with elaborate designs. Hundreds of beads and sequins winked at me, lit by the glow of a nearby lamp. Long earrings in the shape of a peacock’s tail, inlaid with iridescent stones, dangled from her earlobes and brushed her shoulders when she moved her head. I detected the subtle hint of lavender and another fragrance, and the scents triggered an elusive memory.
“Sorry, you seem so familiar, but I’m afraid I can’t remember your name. How are you connected with the Theater Department?” Maybe I had seen her around campus.
She laughed. “You’re Charlie Harris, and I used to babysit you when you were five or six years old.” She cocked her head like an inquisitive parrot. “I heard you’d moved back home.”
I wracked my brain as I examined her face. Then a name popped into my head. “Sarabeth. Now I remember. You used to sing to me, didn’t you?”
“That’s right. I’m Sarabeth Conley. I was Sarabeth Norris back then.” She chuckled. “Your two favorite songs were ‘My Favorite Things’ and ‘Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo’ as I recall.”
I blushed. When she babysat me Sarabeth was a pretty young girl, maybe fifteen, and I loved sitting next to her in my dad’s old armchair while she sang.
Now Sarabeth was sixtyish, and I’d describe her plump face as more handsome than pretty. The odor of lavender seemed stronger now, and I recalled snuggling close to Sarabeth as she read to me, her perfume a light but pleasant presence in my nose.
“I’m the department administrator,” Sarabeth said. “Have been for the past twenty-five years. You work in the library, don’t you?”
I nodded. “I’m the archivist and rare book cataloger. Part-time, and I volunteer at the public library several days a month.” As I conversed with Sarabeth I darted quick glances at the doorway. I hoped Connor Lawton wouldn’t come back.
“I visited the public library all the time when I was a girl.” Her tone sounded wistful. “These days I don’t ever have time to read like I did back then.”
“That’s too bad,” I said. “I’m lucky, I guess, to have a fair amount of time to read. I love mysteries especially.” I paused. “When you have time, what do you like to read?”
A faint tinge of red brightened her cheeks. “Romances, Regencies in particular. Mostly I end up rereading my Georgette Heyer novels.” Her fingers moved restlessly in her lap.
“Heyer is wonderful, isn’t she?” I chuckled. “I have to confess, I love a good historical romance novel occasionally myself, and there’s nobody better than Heyer. I like to reread her, too.”
Sarabeth perked up at my response, and I figured she was embarrassed—as some readers are—to admit to reading romance novels. A good book is a good book, I’ve always thought, whatever the genre. I had no patience for snobbery when it came to fiction reading.
I made a casual sweep of the room and began to breathe easier. Still no sign of Connor Lawton.
Sarabeth and I discussed some mutual favorites for a few minutes—Barbara Metzger, Mary Jo Putney, Meredith Duran, Roberta Gellis, among others—and then the conversation veered away from fiction entirely.
“Your daughter is causing a stir.” Sarabeth laughed and gestured toward the other sofa. “Like ducks on a june bug, the men here tonight. And not just the straight ones. She’s a knockout.”
“Thank you,” I said. “She’s quite an accomplished actress. I’m proud of her.”
“I read her résumé.” Sarabeth nodded. “All her theater work is great for our program, and her exposure on television is advantageous, too. We’re delighted to have her for the semester.”
“I am, too.” I laughed. “But it was quite a surprise. I didn’t find out about it until yesterday.”
“I’m sure you’re glad to have her home for a few months.” Sarabeth glanced away. “It’s hard not being able to see them when you want.”
I detected a note of pain in her voice, and when I spoke my tone was gentle. “Do you have children?”
“No, not really.” Sarabeth’s gaze remained fixed away from me. “A much-younger brother who is more like a son, but that’s all.” Some private sorrow seemed to engulf her.
I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so I picked up on an earlier remark. “Laura living in California is tough,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll enjoy the semester here, but then she’ll be off to Hollywood again.” Where Connor Lawton would return eventually, and that thought unsettled me.
Sarabeth faced me again. “How well does she know Connor Lawton?”
I was taken aback by the question. For a moment I thought she’d read my mind. “They’re friends,” I said in a cautious tone. I wasn’t about to discuss my daughter’s private life with a relative stranger. “They’ve worked together in Los Angeles.”
Sarabeth cocked an eyebrow. “Judging from his behavior, Connor wants to be more than friends. He acted downright jealous.”
I shifted uncomfortably on the couch. I’d thought much the same thing. “He’ll have to deal with it. Laura’s not interested.” I figured that was safe enough as a response to her blatant curiosity.
“He’s an intense young man,” Sarabeth said. “That comes through in his plays.”
With her long tenure in the department, she probably knew far more about modern playwrights—Connor included—than I did. “I’m not familiar with his work.”
“He’s gifted.” Her tone turned sour as she continued. “But he has all the tact and personality of a buzz saw, and that may do him in. At some point he’ll meet somebody he can’t run over.” She glanced at her watch. “You’ll have to pardon me, Charlie. It’s been nice chatting with you, but I have something I need to take care of.” She rose stiffly from the sofa.
I stood and earned a faint smile from Sarabeth for my old-fashioned courtesy. “I look forward to seeing you again.” She nodded before she turned and walked away.
I surveyed the room. I spotted a couple of slightly familiar faces in the crowd, but there was no one I had a burning desire to corner for a conversation. Instead I ambled over to check out the food on the dining table.
The spread consisted of the usual cocktail shrimp, cheese and crackers, and fruit and raw vegetables with spinach dip. I picked up one of the small plates and helped myself to a snack. I returned to the sofa to munch and finish my wine.
I emptied my plate within minutes and contemplated heading back for more. I could easily fill up on cheese and crackers—the reincarnated mouse in me—but I figured Stewart would be making dinner, as he often did. Whatever he cooked, I wanted to be sure I had room for it.