Swan Song (12 page)

When I pulled into the small parking area in front of the Law Barn, I was surprised to find Isabelle, Duane and Becky standing close together in the open doorway. Duane was pointing at something on the door frame. “Whoever it was didn’t bother about being subtle,” he was saying as I joined them. We all peered at the splintered wood. “If I had to guess, he used a hammer or something else heavy to break the lock and a crowbar to pry open the door. He wasn’t worried about being either quiet or neat.” He glanced around at the neighboring structures, more than half of which were businesses. The Law Barn sat farther back on the street than did its neighbors, and it was somewhat obscured by low-hanging branches on the old trees in front of it. “I guess that puts the break-in well after all these places closed up for the night.”

My first illogical thought was to hope we wouldn’t have to call the Wethersfield police. Again. In the relatively few years my partners and I had leased space in Old Wethersfield, the town’s emergency personnel had already responded to far too many incidents involving us ranging from vandalism to a major fire. I could only imagine the eye rolls and guffaws that yet another call from us would prompt, not to mention the heat John Harkness would take about his wife’s crazy colleagues. I abandoned that hope reluctantly. A break-in was a break-in and would have to be reported.

My second most dreaded call would be to our long-suffering landlord, who also would be less than pleased with this latest development. I couldn’t help sighing as we all trudged into the lobby. The door swung to behind us, but the damage to the door and the splintered frame were evident.

“Do we know what was taken yet?” I asked, looking around uncertainly. The lobby, at least, seemed none the worse for wear. The drawers to Becky’s desk had been upended on the floor, but otherwise things seemed to be as usual. “Has anyone been downstairs yet?”

Isabelle found her voice. She looked tired and tense. “No, we concentrated on the Romantic Nights offices upstairs, since that’s where the intruder or intruders seem to have spent the most time. Things are pretty well trashed up there. The only good news is that May, Duane and I all use laptops and take them home every night, or they would probably have been vandalized, too.” She looked from the two young people, who were clearly shocked and dismayed, to me and fell silent. I knew she was wondering how much to say in front of them about the new developments with Martin Schenk.

I shook my head to clear it. “Well, it looks as if we have a long morning of clean-up here, and I’m sure the messages are piled up on the machine. Becky, why don’t you round those up while Duane makes us a pot of coffee? Isabelle and I will take a look downstairs and be back with you in a jiffy.”

Looking relieved to have something normal to do, the youngsters scurried to fulfill their assignments while Isabelle and I headed for Mack Realty. At the bottom of the stairs, I flipped the light switch and was relieved to see that our file cabinets, which were always kept locked when we weren’t in the office, remained unmolested. Our desk drawers had been tossed, but that was a minor inconvenience. I smiled to myself, thinking at least we had polished off the bourbon the previous evening, so the intruder didn’t get that.

“How much do the kids know about Martin Schenk’s apparent deception?” I asked Isabelle in a low voice.

She shrugged sadly. “Nothing from me. When May telephoned me last night, she asked me not to say anything until she had an opportunity to fill them in on her naïve foolishness, as she put it, and I think she and Margo left to see the attorney right from home this morning. I know she feels completely humiliated at having been taken in so completely, but I think she’s being too hard on herself. The man was entirely believable.” She glanced up the stairs and kept her voice down. “So you think this break-in was Schenk’s doing?”

“I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but it would be an incredible coincidence if we happened to have a random break-in at precisely the time we know Schenk is searching for the Trague manuscript, don’t you agree?”

“I certainly do. What puzzles me is why he thought it might be here? Wouldn’t he be doing the same thing May and Margo are doing, trying to get some information out of Trague’s lawyer?”

I shook my head. “Maybe he doesn’t know Henley was Trague’s lawyer as well as Lizabeth’s. Remember, we only know that because of the memorial notice Duane found on line, and he spent hours and hours looking before he found that. So looking for the manuscript here makes a certain amount of sense. Assuming he was doing the same thing in Lizabeth’s hotel room the morning she died, he would have been looking for a typed manuscript at that point, since Trague was known to crank his books out on an old typewriter. Once Schenk read the letter, though, and discovered that the manuscript is on a flash drive that Lizabeth concealed somewhere before she left home, he either had to find it himself or …”

“ … wait for May to find it and steal it from her,” Isabelle finished my thought, “and if he’s searching her offices, he must think she has it already.”

I sank down on the sofa. “But that doesn’t make sense. Schenk was planning to take May to Trague’s hometown library so they could find the flash drive together. He knew Duane was researching that, and he probably did some research of his own, too.” We looked at each other in alarm.

“Maybe he found that same announcement on the Mystery Writers of America website and took off to see Attorney Henley on his own yesterday. That’s why May couldn’t reach him,” Isabelle guessed. “He knew that was the only way anyone would ever find out where Trague had lived, and he wanted to beat May to it and get to the flash drive first.”

“Which still doesn’t explain why he was here last night, trashing her office,” I groaned. “This is all way too confusing. I got to my feet and crossed slowly to the desk. “Why don’t you try to get May or Margo on their cell phones and fill them in on what’s happened here, and I’ll deal with the police and the landlord,” I said as Becky came down the stairs, bearing a pile of message slips and a mug of coffee I hoped was for me. I smiled wanly at Isabelle as I accepted them. “Happy Tuesday to us all.”

By mid-afternoon the Law Barn had been restored to order pretty well. After a nice young officer from the Wethersfield P.D. had taken a report and departed, Becky and Duane cleaned up the lobby, then went upstairs to help Isabelle cope with that mess. I called our landlord, a local handyman and a locksmith, in that order, and repairs to the front door were well under way.

My dreaded call to the landlord had gone better than expected. He accepted the news of the break-in philosophically. His stoicism was no doubt strengthened when I told him we would bear the cost of the repairs, which meant he wouldn’t have to file an insurance claim and suffer the resulting premium consequences.

At two-thirty I shooed our young assistants out to get us all some lunch and asked them to try again to feed the little birds, providing the crows had moved on. They were quick to agree, and I gave Duane the key to my car so they could access the birdseed in the trunk. As soon as they pulled out of the lot, Isabelle and I put the phones on the answering machine and sat in the lobby to compare notes.

“Were you able to reach May and Margo?” was my first question.

“Yes, and they’re as confused as we are by this crazy situation. The problem seems to be that it’s all guesswork on our part. We don’t know Martin Schenk’s true identity or what he knows about W.Z.B. Trague, other than what Lizabeth stated in her letter to May. We don’t even know how he got the original letter. Was he the one knocking on her hotel room door at 5:30 a.m., or was it an accomplice—or was it someone else altogether? And did any of them have anything to do with Lizabeth’s death?”

I rubbed my aching temples. “The police found no evidence of foul play, and the hotel doctor signed a preliminary death certificate pending an autopsy,” I told Isabelle, repeating what Margo’s husband John had learned from his police connections. “May thought Schenk was hotel security and had brought her the letter personally out of an excess of chivalry. We know differently now, or at least we think we do; but until we know for certain who Schenk really is and what his motives are, we can’t apply any logic to what’s happened since last Friday. The Hartford police told John Harkness that the actual head of security at the Hilton called them soon after 6:30 a.m. on Friday. When they arrived on the scene, there was no letter and nothing at all suspicious. If only we had some way of knowing what really happened in that hotel room between 5:30 and 6:30 a.m.”

At that moment, the young people clattered through the newly repaired door, bearing bags of take-out from the Village Diner down the street. So intently were they murmuring to each other, they didn’t see Isabelle and me sitting in the reception area.

Duane grabbed Becky’s arm. “I know she’ll try to talk us out of it, but I’m sure it’s the only way to get the inside scoop,” he hissed at her. “Are you in?”

“You bet,” Becky agreed. She pulled up short when she caught sight of us, and Duane almost dropped the bag he was carrying. His grin, as he handed me my car keys, was distinctly guilty. “Thanks, Kate. The birds are all fed.”

I looked at him through narrowed eyes. Not for nothing, I had raised two teenagers of my own.

“Great, thanks. So what inside scoop are you two looking for, and which of the many women in this office will try to talk you out of it?” I gave Duane my best mom smile.

I’ll give the kid credit. He recovered quickly. “The scoop on who decided it would be fun to break into this place and toss our offices,” he answered smoothly. “We saw a couple of unfamiliar guys hanging around across the street when we pulled out. I think it would be a good idea if Becky and I checked with some of the other local business owners to see if they know who these guys are, maybe give them a heads up about what happened here last night so they’ll be on their guard. I wasn’t so sure you would be cool with that.”

Quickly, he moved toward the coffee room. “C’mon, Becky, let’s get some plates and stuff.” Becky threw us an apologetic look and scurried after him. Much banging of cupboard doors and clanking of silverware followed, interspersed with muffled directives (Duane) and pleas (Becky). Obviously, she knew the jig was up and was all for coming clean, but Duane wasn’t ready to admit defeat. I looked at Isabelle, slipped off my shoes, and jerked my head toward the coffee room. She got it and removed her shoes, as well. Almost silently, we glided across the lobby and positioned ourselves on either side of the entrance to the coffee room, arms folded across our chests. I arranged my face in what I hoped was a suitably stern expression and tried not to laugh as we eavesdropped.

“Get it together. Just follow my lead, and we’ll be fine. Here, take these,” Duane ordered. He picked up a tray and marched through the door, almost colliding with Isabelle. He stopped so quickly that Becky crashed into his back, and paper plates and silverware went flying. I smiled at her kindly.

“So much for following his lead,” I told her, and Isabelle snickered. “Bear this in mind the next time a man tells you to do that. It could be a terrific life lesson.”

I relieved Duane of his deli-laden tray and retraced my steps to the sitting area while the two young people turned every shade of red I’d ever seen and scrambled to retrieve the plates and utensils. Isabelle took pity on them and helped, wiping down the forks and knives with a damp paper towel. She rejoined me on the sofa, while Becky and Duane shuffled after her, shamefaced.

“Sit,” I told them, and they sat. “Now what’s up?”

Becky raised an eyebrow at Duane. “They’re onto us, pal. Better just go for it.” She reached for the container of potato salad and helped herself.

Duane cleared his throat. “The thing is, I know how important it is for you guys and May to find out for certain what happened in Lizabeth Mulgrew’s hotel room the night, or rather the early morning, of the day she died, and I’m pretty sure I know how to do it. I think Becky and I can pull it off, but I’m not sure how you’re going to feel about it.”

“Well, I’ve got to admit that you have my attention,” I told Duane. “How about you just reveal your master plan, and we’ll see how it goes?”

Becky munched on a sandwich and remained silent. Isabelle nodded. She and I helped ourselves to sandwiches and prepared to listen.

With nothing to lose, Duane launched into his reasoning. “I don’t know if you remember, but a couple of years ago Charlie Putnam and I worked most of the summer for a catering company, the one that supplies temporary staff for private parties, company events, that kind of stuff. We’d get a call, grab our white jackets and go wherever they needed us. We did everything from setting up tables, passing hors d’oeuvres and drinks, and plating food to cleaning up banquet halls and loading the vans. After a few weeks, we got to know the ropes pretty well, how things worked behind the scenes. There were a bunch of people who worked for the same company part-time all winter, and they did convention work at a few local hotels. The Hilton was one of them.”

“Interesting,” Isabelle murmured and took another bite of tuna fish.

“And?” I prompted through my coleslaw.

“It occurred to us … to me,” he amended as Becky glared at him, “that things probably work the same way now. You know, a big event is scheduled for the hotel, and the catering manager calls in a bunch of temporary workers to help out. As it turns out, the Hilton has its own list of temporary wait staff because so many conventions are held there.”

“How do you know that?” Isabelle wanted to know.

Duane looked uncomfortable but continued. “Because I called their personnel department to find out, and based on my good recommendation from the catering company and my familiarity with the Hilton, they put me on their call list. I’m pretty sure they would take on Becky, too.”

Isabelle and I looked at each other and back to Duane. “I don’t understand. Does this mean you’re quitting and trying to get Becky to go along with you?” I asked him point blank. “I thought you two were happy here.”