Chapter SixI returned to the main apartment moments before Tom Butterfield arrived. He was the epitome of anyone's image of a writer; aged in his late forties, immoderate build, full untrimmed beard, a head of hair that had not seen a barber's scissors in months if not years, high forehead, black thick-rimmed glasses balanced on a hooked nose and three pens pinned to his jacket's breast pocket. There was a musty smell of tobacco to his mismatched clothing, and shoes that had more scratches than polish.
The hired professional party host announced his entrance to Melissa, James and Sheila, the only occupants of the main reception room where the harpist had made camp. I crept in through the adjoining door-less room. I preferred violins to a harp!
As I neared the tiny gathering he was in the
