Free File M for Murder by Miranda James

could move, Azalea was there with the coffee pot.
    Laura considered a moment before she responded. “I think it will be. I read through the first act a couple times this weekend. There are some rough parts, but workshopping it will help.”
    “How so?” Stewart asked.
    “Writing dialogue is tricky. Hearing it in your head is one thing. Hearing it performed is another.” She forked a hunk of pancake. “Connor writes brilliant dialogue, but occasionally he’s off the mark. Hearing actors reading it can be illuminating, and Connor’s good at spotting the problems.”
    “Can anyone sit in?” Stewart slipped another bite of food to Dante.
    “Not just anyone,” Laura said with a smile. “But I think I could sneak you in. Along with Dad.”
    “And Diesel. Remember he’ll be with me,” I said. At the sound of his name, Diesel meowed.
    Stewart chuckled. “Diesel can give us his review. That cat has discriminating taste. What time is the session?”
    “Two,” Laura said.
    “That’s not fair. I’ll be teaching my organic chemistry class then, with a lab afterward.” Stewart gave a theatrical sigh. “Guess I’ll have to forego the pleasure of telling the resident genius what I think of his play. At least for now.”
    “I’ll be sure to let him know.” Laura grinned.
    I pushed back from the table. Time for Diesel and me to finish getting ready for work. “I’ll see you this afternoon, Laura. Have a good day, Stewart. And Azalea, thank you for yet another delicious breakfast.”
    My housekeeper nodded her head as Laura and Stewart acknowledged my comments.
    “I’ll be back after I brush my teeth,” I told Diesel. I was so used to talking to my cat, I no longer worried about how odd it might sound to other humans. Stewart and Laura were so busy chattering that they probably didn’t hear me. Azalea simply shook her head at me.
    Diesel gazed up at me. I was convinced he understood what I said to him. He meowed a couple of times in response, and he moved to sit by Laura as I left the kitchen.
    Or maybe it was the bite of pancake dangling from her finger that attracted him.
    The morning passed quickly. I ate lunch at my desk. Diesel mostly napped, but on occasion he roused enough to warble at the birds in the tree outside his window. He batted at the glass, his large paw going
thunk
when it struck the pane.
    At a quarter of two I closed up shop and fitted Diesel into his harness, and we walked to the auditorium two blocks away. Ancient trees shaded our walk, and I was thankful for relief from the blazing afternoon sun. The college occupied land that had once been dense forest. The pre–Civil War founders made sure the campus retained an abundance of green, and administrators since then had not violated the policy.
    The auditorium dated from the late nineteenth century and sported all the elegance of Gilded Age architecture, like a mini-Biltmore. Though more ornate than the nearby antebellum buildings in classic Greek Revival style, the Maria Hogan Butler Center for the Performing Arts harmonized well with its neighbors.
    Diesel and I mounted the broad steps, paused at the door for a pair of exiting students, then strolled into the cool dimness of the lobby. Whenever I stepped inside the ButlerCenter, I always fancied I could hear echoes of long-ago productions. Today I heard the air conditioner’s low hum and voices from the auditorium ahead. The right-hand set of double doors was propped open, and Diesel and I headed for them.
    A few steps inside the theater I paused, and Diesel stood beside me. I sniffed mingled odors of the greasepaint and dust of ages past—or so I fancied—as I gazed with affection over the ornate fixtures and slightly shabby carpet. The seat covers, once a plush wine velvet, had faded to soft pink. I recalled some of the plays I’d seen here as a student thirty years ago—my first live taste of Shakespeare and others.
    Diesel shrank against my leg at a sudden burst of noise from the