File M for Murder (28 page)

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?

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.

Ray Appleby, who continued to report on Hubert Norris’s death, wrote that there was to be an official investigation of the former mayor’s death. Normal procedure, I supposed, in a case of accidental death, particularly of a prominent citizen.

There were several short articles about the investigation, and one about the funeral. That event evidently attracted notables from surrounding counties, and even a former governor and several state legislators. Hubert Norris had been well known in political circles, though the highest office he ever held was the mayoralty of Athena.

The articles grew shorter and ceased by the end of June. There were sparse details of the investigation, but from what I gathered the police and the sheriff’s department were eventually satisfied with the verdict of accidental death.

Why had the investigation dragged on for three months, though? That seemed odd to me. Unless the two departments were bogged down in multiple other investigations, I couldn’t see this one taking three months to resolve.

So why had it? That was a question I would put to Ray Appleby for sure.

The articles mentioned little about the rest of the Norris family. The first one had listed Sarabeth under her maiden name, but subsequent ones identified her as “Sarabeth (Mrs. Jack) Conley.” The son, Levi, was apparently a teenager, and that meant there was quite a gap in age between him and Sarabeth. No age was given for the widow, but
after quick calculations, based on Sarabeth’s probable age of thirty-two or so in 1984, I figured Mrs. Norris was a good fifteen to twenty years younger than her husband. Perhaps she was still alive—another fact I might check.

I made a note to check the obituaries in the
Register
. Not today, however. I’d had my limit of microfilm. Later I’d start with the digitized versions of the paper, and if that yielded no result, then I would tackle the microfilm again. Another of the joys of being over fifty, I had discovered to my dismay, was that my eyes tired more easily now.

Back to my notes—the final two articles from the
Register
dated from the late 1980s and concerned Levi Norris. One was simply a mention in the weekly arrest reports the paper published—much to the chagrin of the families of those arrested, I was sure. Levi had been arrested for burglary in 1988, but I couldn’t find any further details on that incident.

The second, short article denoted the arrest in 1991 of Levi Norris, then aged twenty-three, for assault and battery. A small, somewhat grainy photo of Norris accompanied the article. I stared at it. His face seemed familiar. Had I seen him somewhere recently?

It took me a moment, but I placed him. I’d seen him at the cocktail party and again at the theater. Laura and I had spoken to him there, and later I saw him talking with Sarabeth in the lobby. That settled, I returned to my research.

Lawton had apparently stopped with 1991 in his survey of the
Register
. Had he found all he needed, or had he meant to do more searching but didn’t have time? I pondered that while I loaded the first roll of microfilm of the
Commercial Appeal
. There were only a few references for this paper, and I soon read them. They revealed further details of Levi Norris’s brushes with the law. Mostly petty thievery or assault, including one incident in Memphis that
sounded like attempted rape. There was no mention of Norris’s having served time for any of these offenses, and I wondered about that, too.

Levi Norris seemed to be an unsavory character. He appeared innocuous enough when I’d seen him recently, though definitely a bit seedy. Had he reformed completely? His history of assault made me uneasy. He might have been Laura’s attacker, and he also could be our would-be arsonist.

But why? How could he be connected with Connor Lawton and Damitra Vane? It didn’t make much sense. Ralph and Magda Johnston still seemed more likely suspects to me.

I turned off the reader and replaced the microfilm boxes in the cabinet. I could have left them in a basket provided for that purpose and one of the staff would refile them later, but I didn’t see the point in making extra work for anyone.

I found Diesel at the combined circulation/reference desk with Teresa and another of the staffers. We chatted for a few minutes, until other patrons approached the service points for assistance. Diesel and I bade our friends good-bye and headed home.

I nodded to the policeman on duty in a squad car parked in front of the house as I pulled into the driveway. I was grateful to know he was there. I had done my best not to let the arson attempt rattle me, but it was there at the back of my mind, ready to unnerve me the moment I let the thought surface.

The house was quiet when Diesel and I entered the kitchen, and for the first time in my life I felt slightly spooked by the silence. This was a big house, three stories plus an attic, with many places for an intruder to hide.

Diesel picked up on my unease. He pushed against my legs and meowed, and I realized how foolish I was being.
The police had been watching the house, and they wouldn’t let someone sneak inside. I removed Diesel’s leash and harness and hung them on the rack by the back door, all the while talking to the cat to reassure him that everything was fine. A small worm of doubt kept niggling at me, however, but I did my best to ignore it.

Obeying an impulse I pulled out my cell phone and speed-dialed Sean. He answered quickly. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

“Just back from the library. How are you and Laura? Where are you?”

“We’re fine. We’re in her office. I’m reading, and she’s grading some papers. Want to talk to her?”

“No, that’s okay. I’m sure she’s got plenty to do. I thought I’d check on you, that’s all.”
Stop being such an idiot
, I told myself.
Of course they’re fine.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You sound a little odd.”

“I’m fine, really.” I put as much conviction as I could muster into my voice, though truth be told I was still uneasy. “I’ll fill you in later on what I found out at the library.”

“See you around three or so,” Sean said. He ended the call.

I put my cell phone away, frowning. Why couldn’t I shake this feeling that something was wrong in the house?

I stood there for a moment, irresolute. Then I felt even more foolish. I couldn’t stand here in the kitchen like a spooked child until someone else came home. This was ridiculous.

Forcing my feet to move, I headed for the den. I wanted to sit down with Lawton’s play again, now that I knew more about the Norris family, to see what connections there were with the Ferris family in the play. I ignored the prickles at the back of my neck as I approached the den.

I paused on the threshold for a moment, willing myself to go in. I reached for the overhead light switch and flipped it on.

After glancing around the room, I reassured myself there was no intruder lurking in here.

I scooped up the stack of papers that contained the play and settled on the sofa. I had plenty of room, because Diesel hadn’t come with me. He was probably busy in the utility room and would be along soon.

Soon absorbed in Lawton’s play, I forgot about Diesel. It wasn’t until I became aware of loud meows coming from somewhere not far away that I realized at least ten minutes had passed and he still wasn’t with me.

I set the papers aside and called out his name. “I’m in here, boy. Come on.”

I waited, but the meowing didn’t abate. I frowned. This was unusual behavior for him. Now he started yowling, and that really spooked me. I jumped up from the sofa and hurried out into the hall.