Wilmington, NC 10 - Much Ado About Murder

trying to imagine how Mr. Berlin would advise him. He even submitted some of his songs to producers. But none were ever accepted. And then his fellow TA board member, Cameron Jordan, announced he was holding a contest to find the best big-production musical to make into a movie. Dalton was elated. He and Simon got out the score, dusted it off, and began working on it again. And Simon was working on the libretto. They both thought they had the winner. But what to call their musical? They decided on Love is Mighty .

15

    After Greg Finley left the house, Jon and I made our way down to the first floor entry hall. The stacks of newspapers and bags of trash were gone from the front hall. The living room and dining room furniture, along with Dalton’s bedroom furniture, had been moved to his apartment at Brightmore before the episode of the gas leak. I knew it was his intention to remove everything from the house. His intentions were good, but for some reason his tenants had not acted upon his instructions. I wondered why.
    We walked to the rear of the house and into Dalton’s music room where I got another shock. I couldn’t believe my eyes. His music room was the same jumble it had been the morning of the walk-through.
    Plus we had another trespasser to confront. “What are you doing?” I demanded. Thomas Holbrook stood at the piano, cramming Dalton’s musical scores into boxes.
    From behind me, Jon asked, “Yes, what are you doing? And how did you get in here?”
    Thomas stopped throwing papers into the box he’d set on top of the piano to reply in an agitated tone, “I’m trying to help Dalton out. He can’t pack up his things himself. I’m doing it for him.”
    “But how did you get in? Do you still have a key?” Jon asked.
    I felt like I was in an echo chamber. These were the same questions we had just asked Greg. And we were getting the same answers.
    How many people had keys to Dalton’s house? I wondered. Correct that. To our house?
    “Of course, I have a key. I live here. And right now I’m trying to help my injured friend by packing up his papers. Oh, and I’ll get the piano out of your way too.”
    “The piano!” Jon was near exploding. “That piano is ours now. We bought it from Dalton. He couldn’t take it with him to Brightmore .”
    I had a flash. “You know, Thomas, you don’t have to do this packing up. We’re going to have to pack Simon’s room and put his possessions in storage. Surely, his family will want them. Particularly his grandfather’s guitar. By the way, do you have any idea what became of it? It’s not in his room.”
    Thomas looked around the room for a moment. He seemed not to want to be dragged into a discussion about the guitar. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he said, “I have no idea.”
    “You still haven’t explained why you have not moved out?” Jon confronted Thomas.
    “I’m not moving out. I live here, remember? This is my home.”
    I made a mental note to keep the inside door shut at all times.
    Jon marched up to him and got in his face. “You should be upstairs packing your things because you most definitely do not live here any longer and this most definitely is not your home. I’m giving you twenty-four hours to get your stuff out of my house or I’m calling the police.”
    Thomas smirked at him. “Go ahead, call the police. You can’t throw me out. This has been my home for the past three years. You can’t evict me. Or any of us for that matter.”
    Jon’s face grew red. “Can’t evict you? But I thought you all were moving out. Your lease was with Dalton – not with us - and he no longer owns this house.”
    “Don’t have a lease. None of us do. Dalton wasn’t into that. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m within my legal rights to stay here. My mother looked into the matter. This has been my home for the past three years. You can’t put me out!” He started for the stairs.
    “This is my house! And you are trespassing. Now get out!”
    I’ve never seen Jon so angry. Usually, he’s the calm one and I’m the one in a dither. He intercepted Thomas in the front hall and escorted him out of the house. Not exactly pushing him, not even touching him. But with the sheer force of his outrage, of his body in motion, he propelled Thomas out. Thomas stayed one step ahead of him as they marched toward the front door. I stood in the front doorway, watching as Thomas made a beeline for his car, an old model junker .
    “Call Walt Brice,”