Swan Song (15 page)

“Good point, Sugar. I know when Uncle Doug passed, Auntie May and my parents were very grateful to the funeral home employees who smoothed the way for all of us. They were warm and absolutely delightful.” Margo grinned suddenly. “Plus, I know for a fact that they have perfectly delicious senses of humor.”

“And you know that because …?” Strutter said doubtfully.

“Because years ago, before I wound up servin’ coffee to the pretentious little associates at that awful law firm, I worked as a temp at a funeral directors’ convention in Atlanta. I was a little nervous about it at first, but after the first day, I had a ball. They were always prankin’ each other.”

“I’ll probably be sorry I asked, but what kind of pranks?” I said.

Margo thought for a few seconds. “Like hidin’ inside a closed casket that’s on display so when a prospective customer came over to have a look, they could throw open the lid and say, ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? And so comfortable, too.’ Things like that.”

I smiled to be a good sport, but Strutter didn’t. “Okay, funeral directors are lovely people with great senses of humor. So what’s the latest on the weather? I’m worried that it will get bad faster than predicted, and the convention will be called off. This may be the only chance Duane and Becky get to grill the other catering staff about last weekend.”

We were interrupted by May and Isabelle, who clunked down the stairs from their office and hustled across the lobby to join us. “Guess what?” May waved a piece of notepaper at us cheerfully, and Isabelle was grinning from ear to ear. That in itself was unusual enough, for such a cool and collected woman, to capture our attention.

“What?” we chorused obediently.

“We’ve finally got a credible lead on W.Z.B. Trague, don’t we?” May announced, turning to Isabelle for confirmation.

She nodded vigorously. “We do indeed, and it didn’t take very long, once we hit on the idea of getting some contact names from the Independent Publishers Association’s website.”

“That was your idea,” May reminded her, and Isabelle blushed modestly.

“Why did you want publisher contacts? We know Trague was published by Random House. I thought you were going to try Renata Parsons, his former agent?” I pointed out.

“She’s not answering her phone, at least not to me,” May reported. “I have a sneaking suspicion that Renata knew about Trague’s final manuscript and what his plans for it were. She may have known that Lizzie and I were friends, or at least professional colleagues for many years, and she may suspect that I have knowledge, if not actual possession, of that manuscript. Of course, this is all supposition on my part, but it seems logical. Why else wouldn’t she return my calls?”

Isabelle jumped in to support May’s theory. “She was at the keynote luncheon last week, as well as the awards dinner. She knows what May looks like, and she may even have seen May and Lizzie together the night of the cocktail reception, just like Martin Schenk.”

Somewhere in the depths of my tired brain, a tiny bell went off. “You know, I believe I may have seen Renata Parsons at the diner last Sunday when we were having brunch,” I said slowly. “She was sort of sliding into the women’s room. I guess it was because May had just mentioned the pink streak in Renata’s hair that I noticed her at all. I just remember thinking the woman I saw was way too old to be streaking her hair and wearing a skirt so short, or something like that. Then we went out the door, and I never gave her another thought. Do you think it’s possible?”

May stared at me. “More than possible, unfortunately, because if you really did see Renata Parsons at the diner last Sunday, it could only mean that she’s …”

“… following you,” Isabelle finished the sentence, “and that would be truly creepy.”

Margo waved her hands impatiently. “Ladies, ladies, let’s not become overly paranoid. First you think Martin Schenk is followin’ May, and now you think Renata Parsons is trailin’ around after her. How likely is that when nobody’s supposed to even know about the Trague book?”

Strutter, who had been quiet for some time, spoke up. “Schenk knows about it, because he read Lizabeth’s letter to May. It could be that he contacted Renata Parsons, and they’re working together to find the manuscript. It might also explain why Renata won’t return your calls.”

I covered my face with my hands and groaned. “Here we go again around in circles. Maybe this, and maybe that. Let’s try to stick to what we know. Now what did you want to tell us, May? You came down here to tell us about a new lead, and then we went off in all directions. What’s up?”

May forced her attention back to the subject at hand and consulted the piece of paper she was holding. “I talked to a delightful old gal at an independent mystery publishing company in Vermont, one Violet Sandpiper. I suspect Violet was having a slow day, because once I got her talking, she just kept going. To cut to the chase, she and Lizzie used to meet up at a convention or two every year, keep each other company at the functions and so on. Over the years, they got to know each other pretty well, the way you do at these things. Anyway, Violet was always envious that Lizzie had the rights to W.Z.B. Trague’s backlist, and she asked Lizzie about Trague from time to time … whether anything new had been turned over to the backlist lately, how sales were going, that sort of thing. Lizzie was generally pretty tight-lipped on the subject of Trague, Violet said, but this one time a few years back, she commented that sales were always pretty brisk for his titles in New England, especially in Massachusetts, and she supposed that was because he was from the area. Lizzie specifically mentioned a large order coming in from a bookstore in Hubbard, which is very near Lowell, Massachusetts.”

May paused to take a gulp from the mug of tea Margo handed her.

“Okay,” Strutter said, “but how does an order from a bookstore in Hubbard get you any closer to knowing where he lived? Massachusetts is a big state.”

Isabelle picked up the story. “Because after May finished talking with Violet, we called the bookstore owner in Hubbard. She actually remembered placing that order, because she’d had to return a number of those books a few months later. She couldn’t understand why they weren’t selling until she found out that the Hubbard Library routinely stocked plenty of copies of Trague’s titles for their local patrons. New Englanders have a reputation for thriftiness for a good reason, you know. Why buy when you can borrow?” she smiled.

“What with one thing and another, we have very good reason to suspect that W.Z.B. Trague’s hometown was Hubbard, Massachusetts,” May finished up. “I think we should all go up there tomorrow and check it out, take a road trip. What do you say, are you in?”

Margo, Strutter and I consulted each other silently. “I’m supposed to staff the sales desk at Vista View tomorrow, but with the storm coming and all, they probably wouldn’t mind my slacking off,” I said. “Count me in.”

Strutter looked doubtful. “I’d love to help, but with Becky and Duane working at the Hilton, somebody has to stick around here and answer the phones. Besides, Olivia’s school may get canceled because of the storm. Has anybody heard a forecast recently?”

Margo was already consulting the weather app on her smart phone. “NBC says the snow isn’t expected to start until mid-afternoon tomorrow, but that could change. Where is Hubbard anyway?”

Isabelle chimed in. “It’s very near Ware, which isn’t far from Springfield. I figure it’s an hour’s drive, maybe a little more if there’s traffic. I’ll keep things from blowing up here. May, if you and Margo and Kate get on the road early, you can get through Springfield before the morning rush. You might have to wait a little for the library in Hubbard to open, but you can always stop for coffee or something. That way, you’ll have several hours to check out the library before the snow even gets started, and you can beat the afternoon traffic back to Hartford.”

May, Margo and I grinned at each other. “This could be it!” May exulted.

“With this information, we’re sure to beat Schenk and Parsons to the finish line, assuming they’re even in the race,” I agreed.

“Road trip with Auntie May!” Margo exulted. “It’ll be like old times.”

On Thursday evening I cleared the decks by leaving a message for Vista View’s business manager to explain my absence the next day and having an extended telephone conversation with my husband, a South American until the age of twenty-nine, who viewed a precipitous drop in temperature and white stuff falling out of the sky as life-threatening.

“Would it not be a good idea to close your offices early tomorrow and be home before the worst of the storm begins?” he suggested, fearing that something disastrous would befall me in the two-and-a-half miles of roads that lay between the Law Barn and The Birches. The truth was that I traveled those roads in worse weather at least a dozen times every winter, usually extending my trip to feed the waterfowl and the songbirds who counted on me. I sighed and tried to keep my patience.

“We may do that,” I stalled, knowing full well we wouldn’t even be in Wethersfield, let alone the office, the following morning. “Isabelle Marchand will be keeping a close eye on the weather, and if it looks as if it’s going to be really bad, she’ll let us know. The good news is, the storm should be well over by the time you’re scheduled to fly on Sunday.” This time I crossed my fingers behind my back. New England storm fronts were extremely changeable, and at this point nobody could know for certain exactly when the storm would pass. “The forecasters say Florida won’t feel any effects at all, because the front will pass well north of there. So enjoy your big dinner on Saturday, and by the time you arrive at Bradley International, we’ll be all plowed out.”

Slightly mollified, Armando bid me goodnight and went off to check his emails, while I filled Gracie’s dry food bowl before she shredded any more of our carpet in protest at the delay in her dinner. After my own dinner of soup and a sandwich, I took a glass of shiraz back to the living room, clicked on the gas fire log, and called Emma in Oregon. We brought each other up to date on news and gossip, including the latest developments in the Trague manuscript situation.

“That sounds like a pretty good lead,” she agreed when I explained about the Hubbard bookstore order and the fact that most of it had been returned due to the library stocking multiple copies of Trague’s titles. “So W.Z.B. was a sort of minor celebrity there?”

“More like a major celebrity with a big local following. You don’t become a national bestseller by selling only locally, and his reclusiveness enhanced his celebrity aura. We’ve looked all over the Internet and have yet to turn up a single radio or TV interview.”

“Which, of course, made him all the more sought-after,” Emma said, “what Carrie Bradshaw called ‘the ever seductive withholding dance,’ on
Sex and the City
.”

I laughed, remembering that line, delivered by Carrie about her on-again, off-again lover, Mr. Big. “I don’t think there’s a woman in America who doesn’t agree with that observation. So how are things going with your crush? Making plans to move to Oregon, are you?”

My tone was teasing, but the truth was, my heart was doing flip-flops. I wanted nothing but the best for Emma, but as close as we’d become in recent years, it would be hard for me to adjust to a long-distance relationship with her. Still, that was the nature of raising children, wasn’t it? My son Joey had married and moved to Massachusetts. It was only logical to admit that Emma might also move to another state. I just wished she weren’t considering moving all the way across the country.

As usual, her response was somewhat reassuring. “I like Oregon a lot, but Connecticut is my home. My mom is there, and as big a pain as you can be, I’m used to having you around. I like my job, and my apartment is just the way I want it, and I’ve had the same friends for nearly twenty years. I’m in no hurry to give up any of that.”

“Long distance romances can be a lot of fun,” I agreed, acutely aware of serving my own interests, “sort of like being on a permanent honeymoon.”

After wishing me luck on our quest of the following day, Emma had another thought. “By the way, what do the initials W, Z and B stand for in Trague’s name?”

I thought about it.“The W stands for Wilhelm, if I remember correctly, but I have no idea what the B and Z represent. Maybe it’s purely for effect. Why?”

“Just curious,” she replied enigmatically. “Let me know how the road trip goes tomorrow.”

As luck would have it, we had barely crossed the Wethersfield town line into Hartford on the I-91 access road when Margo had to step hard on her Volvo’s brake pedal to avoid piling into the rear bumper of a Passat. The traffic ahead was at a standstill as far as the eye could see, and we were now neatly trapped in a parking lot that used to be a highway.

“Hope you all visited the little girls’ room before we started out, because it isn’t lookin’ good for a rest stop anytime soon,” Margo sighed. “Must be an accident somewhere up ahead.”

We all craned our necks in an effort to see around the stopped vehicles to the point where the access road and I-91 merged into one six-lane stream of commuter traffic heading north. May leaned forward in the passenger seat, clearly dismayed, but “Oh, dear. This is not what we needed in order to stick to our timetable,” was all she said. I felt for her. After everything that had happened in the past week, she had finally managed to unearth a solid lead on the Trague manuscript, only to be thwarted by a traffic jam.

“Probably some idiot had his eyes on his text messages instead of the road,” I carped from my perch in the back seat. “I see them all the time, but the police never seem to notice them. At least twice this week I’ve had to honk at the driver ahead of me to get a move on when the traffic light turned green because she was looking down at the device in her lap, thumbs working madly, instead of paying attention to her driving.”

We all fell silent and gazed around at our frustrated fellow drivers. “Do you think there would be any traffic reports on the radio,” May asked, “or is that technology simply too hopelessly archaic for you young things?”