Swan Song (16 page)

Margo rolled her eyes at me in the rearview mirror and reached for the radio knob. “I admit it’s been a while since I’ve listened to anything on AM or FM radio, but I think I still have the hang of it. Any suggestions?”

I drew a blank. “I’m sure you could find the Department of Transportation’s site on your smart phone,” I offered weakly.

“Oh, you are, are you?” she scoffed. “When was the last time you used your cell phone to do anything but call AAA?” Margo knew all too well that I was not a device enthusiast and barely remembered to charge my non-smart phone’s battery once a week so it would work during a highway emergency. Like this one. I looked at May for help, but she just shook her head.

“Sorry. I can just barely turn my phone on.”

Margo had a thought. “Let’s call John at the P.D. Even if he’s not there, somebody will know what’s goin’ on this close to the station.”

I volunteered for the job and spent several seconds activating my phone and fiddling with the swipe screen to unlock the thing so it was useable. “What’s the number?”

Margo looked embarrassed. “Ummm, I don’t know. I’ve got everything on speed dial so I don’t have to remember the real numbers.”

“Very efficient,” I sniped. “Now what do we do?”

May, meantime, had been twirling the dials on Margo’s radio. “As I recall, most stations run news, weather and traffic several times an hour during the commuter rush. It’s still early. Let’s see what I can find.”

To our delight and amazement, the voice of a news announcer soon boomed from the dashboard. “More news in ten as we wind down this Friday rush hour, but now to Mike Alan for a live traffic update on that I-91 delay.”

“Wow, Auntie May, way to go!” Margo congratulated her as May and I high-fived over her seatback. Three adult women, all with cell phones, and it took an FM station to get us where we wanted to go. It figured.

Within seconds, Mr. Alan had enlightened us with the news that a tractor-trailer rig had broken down just past the I-84 East entrance ramp and was solidly blocking the far right lane. Delays were expected to last well past 10:00 a.m. as backed-up commuters already extended south into Rocky Hill. Since my son Joey drove a big rig for a living, my sympathies were initially for the truck driver until I thought about the repercussions for our morning. I looked at my watch, which read 8:23 a.m.

“We’ll never get to Hubbard before noon if we sit here half the morning,” I pointed out unnecessarily. “Can we find a way off this road?”

Margo had already scoped out the possibilities and decided to take her lead from the hordes of drivers squeezing over to take the Brainard Road exit on the right. With admirable bravada, she flipped on her right turn signal and started squeezing with them, flashing her gorgeous smile to anyone who allowed her to merge in front of them. In only a couple of minutes, we were crawling down the exit ramp and preparing to reverse direction. Her GPS, which had been programmed to get us to Hubbard, squawked in protest. “Reset … reset!” Margo flipped it off.

“We’ll have to go south until we get to the Putnam Bridge, go over that and up Route 5 until we’re past the breakdown site. Then we can get back on I-91,” she announced. “The good news is, we have that alternative. The bad news is, all of these folks know about it, too.” She waved an all-encompassing hand at the hundreds of cars already lining up at the traffic light.

Well, at least we had a plan—one with an indefinite timetable, but a plan nevertheless. We switched off all of our devices and settled in for the duration. As we crept along in fits and starts, my mind drifted to the funeral directors’ convention at the Hilton. “I wonder how Duane and Becky are faring? Should we call one of them, do you think?”

May shook her head emphatically. “I spoke with Duane briefly late yesterday evening. He said he and Becky had both passed drinks and hors d’oeuvres at the welcome reception, and the crowd was big enough that they would be needed all day today, so they’re busy. He said they have lots of opportunities to mingle with the other temporary workers in the kitchen and banquet hall, and he’s even run into a couple of fellows he worked with last summer. He thinks today’s keynote address will give him an opening to ask them if either one happened to work at last week’s keynote luncheon and say wow, that must have been a mess with the featured speaker being found dead in her room and so on and so forth. Becky can stand around all wide-eyed and ask the obvious questions, get the gossip. Let’s leave them be and see what they have to say after that, maybe call them on our way back to Hartford.”

Margo clenched the steering wheel with both hands and groaned. “I hate this stop-and-start inching along. It’s boring and demanding at the same time. I have to keep up with the traffic ahead so as not to annoy the driver behind me, but I have to pay close attention to keep from running into the guy ahead.”

“Want me to take over for a while?” I offered.

“I’d love it, Sugar, but I don’t dare pull off this road. I’d never get back on.”

She had a point.

It was nearly noon when we pulled into the parking lot of the two-story public library in Hubbard, Massachusetts, and pulled ourselves out of the car. As we inspected the well-kept brick building, which sprawled invitingly over a large, treed lot, May rubbed her cramped lower back and Margo rubbed her aching hands, which had been gripping the steering wheel for far too long.

Having contorted myself in the back seat for almost four hours, I sat for a minute and dangled my legs out the open car door before hauling myself to my feet. We were hungry, cranky and sorely in need of a bathroom as we shuffled up the entrance stairs and through the automatic doors. Beyond a large, high-ceilinged foyer was the main desk. Probably due to the impending storm, the area was busy as local residents flocked to stock up on reading material and DVDs for the duration.

“So what’s the plan, Auntie May?” Margo asked with little of her customary enthusiasm. No doubt she was already dreading the return drive. I know I was.

“First things first,” May muttered, making a beeline for a door marked Women on the far side of the main floor. Margo and I wasted no time following her. We were all dismayed to discover that a key was required, available at the front desk, according to a posted notice, and we looked despairingly at the line already formed before it.

“I guess they have to lock public bathrooms in self-defense these days, or heaven only knows what would be going on in them all day,” I said. “Hang on, and I’ll try to circumvent the line and plead extreme urgency.” On my way back to the main desk, I caught sight of the reference desk, blessedly abandoned but for a single middle-aged woman staffing the computer. I hurried over. The name tag pinned to her ample bosom read “Marian.”

“I’m so sorry to bother you, Marian, but my elderly friend is desperately in need of your bathroom, and there’s quite a line at the main desk.” I gestured to where May stood with Margo and hoped she hadn’t overheard me refer to her as elderly. “You wouldn’t happen to have a key at this desk, would you?”

The woman pushed her computer glasses down her nose and looked over my shoulder at May with sympathy. Then she looked right and left and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Afraid I don’t,” she whispered, “but fear not.” She yanked open a small drawer and fished around in a bowl of paper clips, which yielded a sturdy door key. “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” she winked as she pressed it into my hand. “Staff bathroom is directly behind me in the DVD stacks. Unmarked door between the long sets of shelves. Don’t forget to return the key, or my life won’t be worth living around here.”

“You’re a lifesaver!” I breathed and waved at May and Margo to follow me.

A few minutes later we all emerged, refreshed, and hastened to return the precious key to Marian, who was still miraculously free of customers. May stepped up to thank her, then blurted, “We’ve come all the way from Wethersfield, Connecticut, because we understand the Hubbard Library has a particularly extensive collection of the W.Z.B. Trague mysteries. That’s right, isn’t it?”

The librarian’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Well, yes, I guess that’s right. He’s always been popular with our mystery buffs, so we make it a point to keep a number of copies of each of his titles on the shelves.” She chuckled. “To tell you the truth, I believe his books have become even more popular since his death than they were before, but why on earth would you need to travel all the way up here to get hold of a copy? His books must be in every library in America. Are you looking for a particularly early example of his work perhaps?”

May looked at a loss for words, and Margo jumped in to fill the pause. “It’s kind of a long story,” she said and stopped, uncertain of whether to go on. I gave my head a small shake.

“It’s the scavenger hunt from hell,” I fabricated on the spot. “Our women’s club decided to include one of his most popular titles on the list of items to find for a huge fundraising event, and all of the libraries around Wethersfield are fresh out. We figured we’d have better luck if we went farther afield.”

“So here we are,” May finished brightly. “Can you point us in the right direction?”

Marian nodded in understanding. “Ohhhh, now I get it,” she said, standing up and massaging the small of her back. I knew the feeling. “That explains why another woman from out of state was here looking for Trague’s books yesterday. I hope she left you a copy of the one you’re looking for.” She pointed to a nearby staircase. “The fiction stacks are up those stairs. Mysteries are in their own section, all shelved alphabetically by author.”

The three of us goggled at her. May was the first to find her tongue. “Umm, the woman who came here yesterday. She didn’t happen to have a pink streak in her hair, did she?”

Marian looked startled. “Why, yes, as a matter of fact she did. I remember thinking at the time that she was a little, shall we say, mature to be sporting that stripe. So she’s a competitor in this scavenger hunt, is she? Wow, you ladies are out for blood.” She laughed merrily.

The three of us exchanged meaningful looks. “I surely hope not,” Margo mumbled and turned toward the stairs.

“Well, good luck to you,” Marian said, heading back to her uncomfortable computer chair. “Let me know if you find what you’re looking for. I’m very curious about this whole thing now.”

“You’re not the only one,” I assured her. With that, we trudged up the wide staircase to the fiction stacks.

After the bustle on the main floor, the upper level was almost eerily quiet. Because of that—as well as the clandestine nature of our errand—we instinctively communicated in whispers. It didn’t take long to locate the mysteries section against the rear wall. Predictably, as with every other volume I’ve sought over the years in libraries and bookstores, Trague’s titles were neatly arranged on the very bottom shelf of the next-to-last section.

“Okay, you nubile young things. Whose knees are flexible enough for this occasion?” May teased. “Since I’m past the age of seventy, I claim ineligibility for serious floor crawling. I might get down there, but it would take both of you to haul me to my feet.”

“I’m not yet seventy,” I protested, “but I’d probably need a derrick to get me up.”

Margo sighed. “Kate got us into the staff bathroom, so I guess I should volunteer for this duty.” Hanging onto the shelving, careful not to break a carefully manicured nail, she lowered herself gingerly to her knees and began to crawl along on all fours. “You’d think they’d come up with a better system than this,” she groused, craning her neck to peer at the underside of the shelf directly over Trague’s titles. “Do you have any idea what this is doin’ to my pantyhose?”

“Why would you wear pantyhose under trousers?” I wanted to know.

“Tummy flattener,” she replied, patting her already flawless abdomen.

“You should try Spanx,” I told her. “Much cooler, and they don’t run.”

May looked worried. “I know Lizzie’s letter implied that she’d secured the flash drive to the bottom of the shelf over W.Z.B.’s books, but I can’t picture her creeping around the floor at her age. She was even older than I am, if that’s possible, and not in good health. How in blazes could she have made the moves necessary to do that?”

Margo stopped crawling and began pulling books off the bottom shelf. When all of Trague’s titles had been removed, she rolled over onto her back and stuck her head all the way into the opening to have a good look around. I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh. My fastidious friend looked for all the world like a very well-dressed turtle stuck on its back.

“Whoever is makin’ that extremely rude noise had better knock it off,” Margo growled. She ran her hands over the underside of the second shelf to be sure she wasn’t missing something in the dimness and then sneezed. “Okay, that’s it,” she announced, pulling her head out of the hole and attempting to roll back over onto her knees. “There is nothin’ whatsoever under this shelf except one dead spider and a whole lot of dust.” Despite her obvious disappointment, May laughed, too, and we both reached to help her. With May hauling on one arm and me on the other, we managed to get Margo into a sitting position and then onto her feet.

“You are absolutely the most ungrateful people I have ever known,” she huffed, taking a few ineffectual swipes at her backside. “Next time you take me on a wild goose chase like this one, Auntie May, you can be the one stuck on your back on the floor, and I swear I will not lift one finger to help you. Kate, swat some of this dirt off my fabulous derriere.”

I obliged, still giggling, but my efforts weren’t entirely successful. Margo finally waved me away, and we bent down to shove Trague’s titles back onto the shelf as best we could. Before replacing each volume, we checked the front and back pages and cover flaps for any biographical information they might hold. We might as well have been chasing a phantom. Maybe we were, come to think of it.

“So much for our terrific lead.” May wrapped her arms around herself and threw herself into an overstuffed armchair, conveniently located in front of a window. “What do we do now? I’m brutally disappointed, and I haven’t an idea left in my head.”