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party. Ipaused in the doorway and scanned the crowd, looking for Laura and Frank. They sat on a sofa to my right. One young man perched on the arm next to Laura, and another, older man leaned against the back, behind where Frank sat. He watched my daughter with a slight smile. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him at the moment. I thought I had probably seen him around campus. A few other young men hovered close.
    Connor Lawton held court from another sofa a dozen feet away from where Laura sat. Two women occupied the sofa with him, and five more crowded as close as they could, sitting on the floor and arms of the sofa. As I watched, I saw Connor’s eyes shift in Laura’s direction and back again several times.
    This didn’t impede the flow of his words, however. I moved a bit closer and tuned in to what he was saying. “…going to change the focus of the play, so I’ll have to do some rewriting.”
    The woman I noticed earlier with our host, the one in a pink-and-orange caftan, ventured a question. “Where did this sudden inspiration come from?” She seemed particularly intent on the playwright. For some reason I flashed on an image of a bird dog on point.
    Connor frowned at her. “From the subconscious, the home of all inspiration. Things from the past lodge there—people, places, events—and resurface when you least expect it. An artist learns to trust these messages and dig into them, seeking the root and the truth they reveal.”
    The room around Connor and his acolytes grew silent as he spoke, and when he finished his statement, the only sounds I heard were people breathing.
    Someone spoke in an undertone, and I turned to see Frank Salisbury, his head near Laura’s. She laughed, and the buzz of conversation resumed.
    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 oflavender 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