Swan Song (10 page)

“Whatever will we do if Emma decides to move in with her beau?” Margo grumbled as she scrabbled through her briefcase in search of a particularly elusive document.

“It doesn’t bear thinking about, but I guess we’d manage somehow. She uses her smart phone for everything and travels with a laptop. She has software installed that lets her access the PC in her Glastonbury office from wherever she is. The attorneys do the actual closings, so if she gets a printer and scanner for Ryan’s apartment in Portland, none of her clients even need to know she’s not in Connecticut. Of course, it’s a pain having to be on the job at six o’clock in the morning Portland time to accommodate her East Coast clients, but on the other hand, her work day ends in mid-afternoon. It’s a trade-off.”

“Isn’t everything? Oh, the hell with it.” Margo upended her briefcase in the middle of the rug, kicked off her Manolos and knelt to sort through the mess. Looking at the clutter, I was reminded of her packrat clients.

“How did the open house go yesterday?”

“Pretty much as I expected. At this time of year lookers are few and far between, but we did have three walk-ins.” She sat back on her heels and huffed in annoyance, pushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “One couple had come all the way from New York. They were lookin’ for a nice investment property, and they were very interested in the duplex. Wethersfield is a great location for them, and they were fairly champin’ at the bit until they got a good look at the mess inside the place. When they saw the shelves stuffed with dusty old books and magazines, the ratty artificial plants, the dining room table covered in half-finished craft projects, and the kitchen clutter, they started to fade, and when they got a load of the garage crammed full of junk, they couldn’t make their exit fast enough. They didn’t even bother to look at the upstairs, and I can’t say I blamed them.”

I smiled, remembering the day I’d made an offer on my freestanding condominium. “When I first saw my place, I was thrilled that it was almost empty. The first owners spent most of their time in Florida. There were only a few clothes in the closets and nothing hanging on the walls. But it was the garage that had me reaching for my checkbook. I was coming from that old fixer-upper, remember, and this condo was as clean as a whistle. I could have eaten off the garage floor. I figured people who were that tidy would have maintained the whole place just as well, and I was right. After years of renovations on that old Cape, replacing appliances and upgrading wiring and plumbing, that gleaming garage looked like paradise to me.”

“I hear you. I just wish the owners of that duplex would hear
me
. Frankly, I’ve about decided to cut them loose if they can’t get their act together. The state that place is in, we’re just wastin’ our time trying to sell it. Aha! There you are, you little devil.” She pounced on a file bearing a yellow Post-it and extracted a single sheet. Then she got to her feet and massaged her knees while looking around for her shoes. “Anyway, I’ve got to run to the bank. The Prestons’ loan officer is lookin’ for this affidavit.”

Hastily, she scraped the rest of the dumped papers into a pile, which she stacked at one end of the sofa. “I promise to clear that up this afternoon. I shouldn’t be gone too long, but I have a possible new listing to check out on Garden Street. See you when I can.” She grabbed her purse, gave her make-up a quick once-over in the little mirror we kept hanging by the stairs and disappeared up the half-flight to the lobby.

Returning phone calls kept me busy for the rest of the morning. Around one o’clock, my hunger pangs drove me upstairs to microwave a cup of soup. I bumped into Isabelle, who was doing the same.

“How are you doing?” I greeted her. “We hardly ever see you down here anymore. The romance publishing business must be keeping you pretty busy.”

“It does that,” she agreed, “but that’s what I’ve always wanted, a job that challenges me and keeps me on my toes.” She sipped her soup, and I watched her smile fade.

The microwave beeped, and I retrieved my lunch. “But?” I prompted and led the way to the empty lobby seating area. Duane and Becky were probably out to lunch themselves.

“But the rewards are becoming fewer and fewer, I’m afraid. Between demanding retailers, who want fifty percent discounts, free shipping and full return privileges, plus wholesalers who insist on even deeper discounts, pay us three or four months in arrears and allow their retailers to return books for full refunds for a ridiculous eighteen months, a title has to sell almost a thousand copies before we can recover our design and production costs, and hardly any of them do.” Her mouth twisted. “And of course, the whiny, ungrateful authors blame us for that. Most of them should get down on their knees and thank us for turning their unprofessional manuscripts into publishable books, but instead, they’re furious that we messed with their deathless prose.” Her free hand massaged one temple.

“Gosh, Isabelle, it sure sounds like fun.” I grimaced in sympathy as she gave a little bark of laughter.

“The real irony is they honestly believe we’re making a ton of money off their work. After all, they’re supplying the product at no cost, right? Ha! By the time we pay for cover design, website maintenance, ISBNs, barcodes, print file set-up and document formatting to accommodate half a dozen different e-book distributors, it’s a miracle we have enough money to pay royalties and business taxes, let alone ourselves. Between you and me, I paid our cover designer more than I made myself last quarter.”

I was genuinely shocked, and I’m sure my face showed it. I struggled to find something positive, or at least hopeful, to say.

“Are there any potential thousand-sellers on your spring list?” I finally managed, but Isabelle didn’t even have to think about that one.

“No. In fact, the only two titles that may—and I emphasize may—earn back their initial direct production costs were written by our church ladies, two old gals who sell a few hundred copies of their historical bodice rippers to their respective church memberships. It gives them the status of minor celebrities on Sunday mornings.” She chuckled and swigged her cooling soup.

It was gallows humor, at best. “If things are that bleak, why would you want to take the helm of Romantic Nights going forward?”

“To be perfectly honest, and I know you’ll be discreet because I haven’t given May my final answer yet, I don’t want to take over the business. I don’t think
anyone
should take it over; it should be shut down. I’m trying to work May around to seeing the truth for herself, but it’s hard for her. Romantic Nights is her baby. She spent years getting it on its feet, only to have the self-publishing facilitators create a wildly overcrowded market in which good, fairly priced books languish and cheap, badly written potboilers sell like crazy. Frankly, even if we weren’t on the verge of losing our shirts, I wouldn’t have the heart to participate in the craziness any longer. There’s something very wrong when nearly a thousand new titles are being released every single day. There aren’t that many competent writers in the universe. Just like the housing market a few years back, this bubble has got to burst before reason can prevail.”

I understood all too well the truth of what Isabelle was saying. My partners and I had been forced to suspend Mack Realty for nearly two years during the worst of the real estate crash, but I hated to think of May having to close down Romantic Nights. Margo had told me how hard losing her husband had hit May and what a godsend starting her independent publishing company had been. Knowing what she had already endured, it seemed particularly unfair for her to have to let the company go now. I had a thought.

“What about the new Trague manuscript? If it’s as good as his others, won’t it get the cash flow moving in the right direction?”

Isabelle smiled at my hopeful words. “If we can find it, and if it’s any good, and if Lizabeth’s letter to May stating her wish to leave it to her holds up legally, it would certainly keep us afloat for a while, maybe longer, but why? So we can release a few dozen more mediocre books and continue to add to the glutted marketplace? No, far better that May use that money to pay off her mortgage and put some fun into her life. I know how wonderful it can be to benefit from an unexpected windfall, and nobody deserves it more than May.”

We both smiled, remembering the bequest that had changed Isabelle’s life a couple of years ago and brought her and May together. It had seemed serendipitous at the time, but life has a way of turning on a dime.

“What will you do, then?” I asked quietly. “Have you had a chance to make any plans for your own future?”

Isabelle’s response was reassuringly upbeat. “Nothing definite yet, but I’ve had an idea or two. I’m letting them marinate.” She upended her mug and tapped the last of the noodles into her mouth. “I know this stuff has way too much sodium, but these instant soup cups are so tasty, I can’t resist them. Anyway, time for me to go back upstairs and try to keep our sinking ship above water for a little longer.” She got to her feet, and I reluctantly did the same.

“Has May reached Martin yet?” I asked, taking Isabelle’s mug to rinse out with my own.

“Is that who she’s been trying to call all morning? I’ve had my face in the computer and wasn’t paying attention. I did hear her sounding very cross with someone just before I came downstairs. What’s going on?”

I filled her in briefly, and she headed for her office, looking curious.

Halfway down the stairs to Mack Realty, I heard our phone ringing and hustled to answer it. I was soon engulfed in the endless calls and e-mails that consumed the day in most realty offices. I did my best to keep up and prayed that Wednesday would get here quickly, and Strutter would return to the office. I was dimly aware that Duane and Becky had returned from lunch. Margo whisked in and out, barely pausing to touch up her lipstick in our little wall mirror—a sure sign that she was flat out.

By four-thirty I was hoarse and exhausted and very glad to see May carrying two mugs of fresh coffee carefully down our stairs. I gratefully accepted one, and she took hers over to the little sofa.

“Are things as busy upstairs as they are down here?” I asked her between restorative sips.

“I guess so, but the phone doesn’t ring so much. It’s mostly e-mails, and Isabelle copes with most of them. I just shooed her home to Vista View.”

Vista View was a planned retirement community across town for which we were the contracted sales representatives. Strutter, Margo and I took turns staffing the sales desk in the administration building’s big lobby. It wasn’t exciting work, but it surely helped us pay our bills during the slow winter months. It was where all of us had met Isabelle, who lived there now following a brief stint as the organization’s business manager.

“Vista View.” I wrinkled my nose. “Doesn’t the redundancy of that name totally bug you? They may as well have named it View View.”

“I’ll bet they have shrimp scampi on their dinner menu every night,” May deadpanned, and I grinned. This was turning into one of our favorite pastimes: the English Major Gripe Session. “I have a new pet peeve,” she announced.

“Oh, goody, what is it?”

“There’s a reality show I like to watch called ‘Fixer Uppers.’ This husband and wife in Texas renovate old, rundown properties in good neighborhoods and sell them. They do a heck of a job on them, too. They have a forty-acre property of their own, and they call it Magnolia Farms. In fact, they recently put up a big entrance sign, so that name is right in my face at the beginning of each episode.”

I thought for a few seconds. “Farms?”

“Exactly. It’s just one farm, for crying out loud, so what’s with the pluralization?”

“I love it,” I agreed with her. “Let’s leave a testy message on their website. By the way, I have a new one, too. There’s a new breakfast place on Route 9. We passed it last weekend, and I almost gagged. It’s called The Koffee Kupboard, spelled with initial K’s instead of C’s.”

May groaned. “A cute-spell! I absolutely hate those.”

“Me, too. What did Martin have to say about the attorney? Do you have an appointment to see him tomorrow? That’s quite a lead, him being mentioned in both Lizabeth Mulgrew’s letter and Trague’s memorial notice. He should be able to tell you something about Trague’s hometown.”

May drummed the table beside her with her fingers and stared past me out our big window. “Oddly enough, I haven’t been able to reach Martin. I called his cell phone and left a message, but I haven’t heard back yet.”

“Maybe he turned off his phone during a meeting at the Hilton and forgot to turn it back on. Why don’t you give him a shout at his office? You still have his business card, right?”

“I do, and I did call that number. That’s part of what’s so perplexing.” She looked uncomfortable. “You know how big companies usually have one main number, which is answered by a person or goes to a general voice mailbox, then everyone else who works there has the same three-number prefix and a four-number extension? Well, the Hilton is set up like that. Their main number is 555-6000, and Martin’s direct dial number is 555-6047. That’s what it says on his business card, but when I called his direct line, it just rang and rang. It wasn’t answered, and it didn’t go to voice mail.”

“That’s odd. Do you think it’s out of service?”

“Funny you should say that,” May commented sourly. “I thought that might be the case, so I called the main number to try to leave a message. Turns out I couldn’t do that either.”

I was almost afraid to ask. “Um, why not?”

She met my eyes over the rim of her coffee mug and took a long sip. Finally, she returned the mug to the side table and sat forward, clasping her hands together in her lap. “When the switchboard operator answered, I explained what had happened with Martin’s direct line. She put me on hold for a few seconds. When she came back on the line, she said I must have been misinformed. That number was assigned to an office that was currently unoccupied. Then she asked me who I was trying to reach.” She swallowed hard. “She didn’t know who Martin Schenk was. She had never heard of him. The head of security at the Hartford Hilton is someone else altogether. Kate, I have an awful feeling I have been a complete jackass.”