Free File M for Murder by Miranda James Page A

stage. Memories pushed aside, I stared, appalled, as Connor Lawton staggered around the stage, clutching at his throat. No one on stage with him seemed to be paying much attention—except for Laura, who watched his stumbling progress with a scowl. She didn’t seem particularly concerned, only annoyed.
    What was going on here? Was it a scene from the play?
    Lawton gagged loudly, his arms went limp, and he crumpled to the stage. His body jerked twice, then went still.
    Deathly still.

NINE

    All conversation ceased as every person on stage turned to stare at the prone body of the playwright. My feet felt frozen to the carpet as I continued to watch in growing concern. Perhaps this was serious after all. Lawton lay immobile. Diesel, sensing my unease, muttered and rubbed against my right leg.
    Then, to my great relief, Lawton pushed himself to his feet in one swift move. He regarded the company with contempt.
    “Based on the reading I heard, the audience will stagger out of here and die like I did just now. If that’s the best you can do”—he turned to glare at Laura—“and the best your
acting coach
can teach you, I might as well cancel the production.”
    The general look of dismay around him made me want to storm up there and give Lawton a piece of my mind. Even if the reading was as bad as Lawton proclaimed, it surely couldn’t have been bad enough to warrant such vitriol.
    My daughter apparently agreed with me. Her face flushed red. She stepped forward until she was almost nose to nose with the irate playwright. “You’re being a complete jackass, Connor, and you know it. You’re pissed at me, and you shouldn’t take it out on the students.” She expelled a harsh breath. “Besides, if you insist on rewriting the scenes every night and then giving the cast three minutes to look over the new pages, you’ll get what you get. Your expectations are ridiculous.”
    Lawton didn’t appeared fazed by Laura’s counterattack. “What I expect is for your so-called
actors
”—the word dripped with contempt—“to act, not read as if English were an incomprehensible tongue. Pardon me if that’s
ridiculous
.”
    I started down the sloping aisle toward the stage, a skittish Diesel at my side. Laura might believe Lawton was a physical coward, but I didn’t intend to give him the opportunity to prove her wrong. If he laid one finger on her, I’d break his scrawny neck. I halted midway, however, when I heard another voice.
    “This has gone far enough.” Ralph Johnston, head of the department, emerged from the wings and made a beeline for the embattled couple. “You will stop this embarrassing display
now
, do you hear me?”
    Johnston’s words would have had more force had they been delivered in a voice with more conviction, instead of in his quivering tenor. His hands flapped like metronomes out of control, and he skidded to a stop so suddenly that I thought he might knock both Lawton and my daughter off their feet. To steady himself, Johnston stuck his right hand on Lawton’s shoulder.
    The playwright shrugged off the hand and stepped back from Laura. “This is what happens when I work with freak-in’ amateurs. You know why I’m rewriting those pages,babydoll. You of all people in this hayseed town ought to understand.” Neither he nor my daughter appeared to be paying any attention to Johnston, despite his proximity.
    Laura groaned, a sound of mingled exasperation and impatience. “You can’t write
and
direct anymore. You should let someone else direct the play. Right now you keep erupting like Vesuvius every five minutes and still expect us to make progress.”
    “Excellent idea.” Johnston bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet, his face alight with excitement. “I think it’s a mistake for the playwright to direct his own work. I’m going to take over directing the production. You’re too emotional, Lawton, to do a proper job.”
    Lawton cursed, loudly and fluently, and Johnston tensed,