File M For Murder

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

For David

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As always, I must thank my Tuesday night critique partners: Amy, Bob, Heather, Kay, Laura, Leanne, and Millie. Their critical input makes a huge difference, and I owe them a great debt of gratitude. Thanks also to the Hairston-Soparkar clan, both two- and four-legged, for sharing their beautiful home with us every Tuesday and allowing us to work.

My editor, Michelle Vega, and my agent, Nancy Yost, have assisted me in so many important ways, and I am incredibly grateful for their support. The same goes for my bookstore family, McKenna, Brenda, Anne, and John. Thanks for selling my books so well and for making the time I spend with them so memorable. Copyeditor Andy Ball did a super job on the manuscript, for which I thank him profusely.

Finally, three friends continue to sustain me and encourage me: Terry Farmer, my Maine coon expert and fellow voracious reader; Julie Herman, fellow writer and the best non-biological sister anyone could have; and Patricia R. Orr, fellow survivor of graduate school and immeasurably dear friend.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

ONE

Connor Lawton made an abysmal first impression on his initial visit to the Athena Public Library.

Now, four weeks later, I’d seen enough of the tattooed playwright to know he didn’t improve on further acquaintance.

This afternoon, I wanted to curse my luck as I watched him amble toward the reference desk, where I waited to help library patrons.

From around my feet I heard an interrogative warble, and I glanced down at Diesel, my three-year-old Maine coon cat. He always seemed to sense when something, or someone, caused me stress or anxiety, and I had to smile. “It’s okay, boy. Nothing to worry about.”

Diesel warbled again and stretched, reassured.

“Talking to your feet?” Connor Lawton gave me a sour smile. He looked more like a prize fighter than a playwright, with his broken nose, buzzed haircut, and muscular frame. Today he wore a sleeveless shirt that revealed the colorful ink on his upper arms. The tattoos, Japanese in style, offered a stark contrast to his tanned skin and white shirt. A diamond stud glittered in his left ear.

“No, I was speaking to my cat. Remember him?”

Lawton grimaced. “Unfortunately. Never seen such an unfriendly animal.”

Now I wanted to laugh. Diesel likes almost everybody he meets. He’s a very sociable, easygoing cat—a lot like me, actually. But there are some people who rub him the wrong way, and that’s what Lawton did the first time he saw Diesel. The man immediately stuck his hand under the cat’s belly and started to scratch, and Diesel was offended by the improper first greeting. He growled, Lawton jerked his hand back, and Diesel turned and stalked off.

Since then Diesel had no use for Lawton, and evidently it still rankled the man.

“I’m surprised they let you bring the beast to the library,” Lawton said. He exaggerated his drawl when he continued, “But at least Ellie Mae ain’t in here with all her critters.”

I suppressed a heavy sigh while I felt Diesel place a paw on my knee. If he stood on his hind legs, he would be able to peer over the counter at the playwright. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Lawton?”

“Old newspapers.” Lawton frowned, and for a moment he appeared troubled by something. “Research for the play I’m writing.”

Ah, yes, the play. Lawton mentioned it frequently. By now every person in Athena knew that the brilliant young playwright Connor Lawton, the toast of Broadway and Hollywood, was in Athena for two semesters as writer-in-residence at the college. The fall semester started in ten days, but Lawton arrived in Athena early to settle in and “immerse the Muse in the fecund atmosphere of the literary South, the home of immortals like William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, and Flannery O’Connor.”

The man’s pretentiousness evidently knew no bounds. He even told me he was named for Flannery O’Connor, but that he had dropped the O’ from his name because it sounded too artsy-fartsy.

“Are you looking for old issues of the local paper? We have access to a number of newspaper archives online, but the Athena Daily Register hasn’t been digitized yet. At least, not prior to 1998.”

“Local, at least for now.” Lawton stared at me and frowned.