Swan Song (5 page)

Thinking of our pet made me think of Margo’s old Labrador retriever, Rhett Butler. Until recently, he had been her devoted and constant companion and a regular visitor to the Law Barn. He even had his own pen under the trees in the building’s tiny back yard, where he and the squirrels held staring matches in good weather. Advancing age and the company of a female mixed breed adopted from a local shelter kept Rhett contentedly at home on most days now.

“How are Rhett and Sassy doing?” I asked Margo. I miss seeing Rhett padding around after you or sleeping on our rug.”

“His arthritis kicks up a bit in this cold and damp, but whose doesn’t?” Margo wiggled her fingers and made a face. “We’ll both be glad for some spring sunshine. In the meantime, Sassy keeps him cozy. She thinks Rhett’s purpose in life is to let her sleep on him, when she isn’t droppin’ a toy on his head and beggin’ him to play with her.”

“Yeah, she’s sort of like Becky here,” Duane teased, “yap, yap, yap.” He dropped his pencil and ran for the stairs as Becky swiped at him with the folded newspaper.

We were all a little startled when the big front door of the Law Barn creaked open to admit a distinguished, sixty-ish man, who for some reason made me think of a police officer, well bundled up against the cold. He calmly regarded the tea party going on in the lobby.

Becky snapped back into receptionist mode and flashed him a welcoming smile. “Hi, can we help you with something?”

Our visitor looked around uncertainly but approached Becky’s desk. With some difficulty, due to his layers of clothing, he managed to extract a business card from an inside pocket and held it out to her.

“Martin Schenk, Hotel Security, Hartford Hilton,” she read aloud and looked at us in alarm.

“I’m in charge of security at the Hilton,” Schenk confirmed unnecessarily. “Can you tell me where to find Romantic Nights Publishing? I need to speak with Maybelle Farnsworth.”

On her way down the stairs to refresh her mug of tea, Isabelle Marchand looked startled to see the group assembled in the lobby, especially since complete silence had fallen over us. Neatly dressed, tidily coiffed and naturally reserved in manner, Isabelle instinctively looked to May for guidance.

“It’s okay, Isabelle, you aren’t interrupting anything.” May got to her feet and approached Schenk, her hand extended. “I’m Maybelle Farnsworth, and the surprised-looking woman on the stairs is Isabelle Marchand, my partner in Romantic Nights Publishing. The other members of this motley crew work in other capacities in this building. How can we help you?”

Schenk shook May’s hand diffidently as Isabelle came over to join them. He was obviously perplexed to discover that a lovely lady, well into her seventies, was the CEO in question.

“This is Mr. Schenk of the Hartford Hilton, where the Mysteries USA conference is being held, Isabelle. Can we offer you coffee, Mr. Schenk, or perhaps some hot tea? No? Well, do sit down, at least.”

Duane and Becky discreetly vanished into the file room, where they knew they could eavesdrop in peace, while the rest of us rearranged ourselves in the seating area.

“I’ll get right to the point.” Schenk fumbled in a different inside pocket and produced a rather thick No. 10 business envelope bearing the return address imprint of the Hartford Hilton. He handed it to May, whose brow furrowed. “As you can see, ma’am, it’s addressed to you, although the writer didn’t seem to know your street address. Do you know who it’s from?” His voice was gruff.

May glanced at the spidery handwriting. “Not without opening it. Why are you hand delivering this to me, Mr. Schenk?” Surely messenger service isn’t among the duties of the security chief of a prestigious hotel.”

Schenk looked pleased at the implied compliment, and his voice softened. “Are you acquainted with Lizabeth Mulgrew?” He watched May’s face closely.

She shrugged. “Yes, of course. She’s my publisher. Is that who wrote me this letter?”

Schenk sank back in his chair, confused. “I thought you were the publisher.”

Isabelle helped him out. “May and I run Romantic Nights, which publishes romance novels, but May is also a rather well-known mystery writer. Lizabeth Mulgrew’s company, Sherlock Press, publishes those titles. We’re all colleagues in the independent publishing industry, you see.”

May continued the explanation. “Because of our various roles in the mystery business, Lizabeth and I have been participating in the Mysteries USA conference at the Hilton this week—at least, we were until Lizzie was called away earlier today on a family emergency. What’s this all about, Mr. Schenk? Is Lizzie all right?”

The security officer’s face grew solemn, and he seemed to choose his words with care. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Ms. Mulgrew apparently passed away in her sleep last night. A room service waiter was unable to rouse her at 6:30 a.m. with the coffee she’d pre-ordered last night, and he contacted me because he was concerned. When repeated phone calls to her room and knocks at the door went unanswered, I used my pass key, and …” His voice trailed away apologetically.

May’s hands flew to cover her mouth in shock as Isabelle patted her knee. Margo jumped up from her chair and ran to stand behind her aunt, putting steadying hands on her shoulders.

“But what about the family emergency?” I protested. “That’s what we were told had happened at lunch today. Lizabeth was scheduled to give the keynote address.”

Schenk slumped still farther into his chair, showing the strain of what must have been a very bad day. “The conference sponsors were told the truth about Ms. Mulgrew, but they apparently decided to postpone passing it along to the rest of the attendees, at least until next of kin had been notified. Let’s face it, they didn’t want to get everybody all riled up and put a damper on their big awards ceremony tomorrow night. Unfortunately, no emergency contact was listed on Ms. Mulgrew’s registration form. It looked as if she intended to get an early start this morning, but her car is still in the hotel garage. Her suitcase was already packed. There were only a few toiletries left out in the bathroom. Her handbag on the dresser contained a driver’s license, insurance and credit cards but no other personal information, and we couldn’t tell from her cell phone directory who might be related. Then I found this letter addressed to you, so I tracked you down to see what you might know about her family.”

May pulled herself together with an effort. She turned the envelope over. “This is still sealed. You didn’t open it?”

Schenk looked shocked at the idea. “That would be a federal offense.”

A shaky smile curved May’s lips. “Under the circumstances, I think you might have been forgiven, but instead you went to the trouble of locating me and delivering this personally. That was kind, Mr. Schenk.”

His cheeks grew ruddy. “It doesn’t seem right, a lady of Ms. Mulgrew’s age, well-known in her industry, abandoned at the city morgue. It’s not respectful, you know? I’m hoping there’s something in that letter that will lead us to her family before this hits the newspapers.” He looked pointedly at the unopened envelope in May’s hands.

May got the message. “Would you like me to read this now, Mr. Schenk?”

“If you could, ma’am, that would be a big help.” Schenk’s relief was evident.

May got to her feet. “Margo, Kate, may I use your office for a few minutes? I’d prefer to read this in private, and I really don’t believe my legs will carry me upstairs at this moment.”

“Of course!” I exclaimed, and “Let me help you,” Margo offered, but May shook us both off.

“I just need a few minutes.” She raised her voice in the direction of the file room. “Duane, Becky, get Mr. Schenk a hot drink and find him a couple of those oatmeal cookies I brought in yesterday. I’ll see you all in a bit.”

The two young people hustled out of the file room, bumping into each other in their haste to do May’s bidding. When Schenk expressed his preference for “coffee, black,” they retreated to the tiny kitchen-cum-copier room to prepare a fresh pot. Margo paced at the top of the stairs leading down to Mack Realty. That left Isabelle and me to make conversation as best we could. Schenk helped us out.

“So you and Mrs. Farnsworth run a publishing company right from here?” He looked around doubtfully. “It seems as if it would take some complicated equipment and a lot more people.”

Isabelle launched into an explanation of the computer technology and new software that had led to the creation of thousands of independent publishers over the last decade while Becky placed a steaming mug beside Schenk’s chair and Duane offered the tin cookie box and a napkin.

“Of course, the books aren’t printed here,” Isabelle concluded. “The digital cover and text files are uploaded to a production company in Tennessee, which also distributes the titles when orders are placed. That’s why our production process is called print on demand. Instead of doing huge print runs when a new title is released, companies produce books only in response to specific orders.”

“So there’s no waste,” Duane chimed in.

“Very good for the environment,” Becky added.

Schenk seemed duly impressed. He turned to me. “And you, ma’am? What’s your role in this?”

I laughed. “None at all, Mr. Schenk, other than being May’s friend. Along with a third partner, her niece and I run a residential real estate company from the office downstairs.” I indicated Margo, still pacing at the end of the lobby.

Just as we ran out of small talk, we heard the Mack Realty office door open. May climbed the six stairs slowly, and Margo hurried to take her arm. Isabelle made room for the two women on the sofa, and Duane and Becky perched on the reception desk, their eyes wide.

May sighed. “The letter was written in the wee hours this morning, Mr. Schenk. In it Lizzie tells me that she received a terminal medical diagnosis a few days ago. She asks me to take care of certain business matters while she herself takes an impromptu trip.”

May’s voice quavered, and Margo squeezed her shoulders. “I’m so sorry, my dear,” Isabelle murmured while I nodded.

“How awful. No wonder she was drunk and bitter yesterday evening.”

Recovering herself, May went on. “She gives me the name of her attorney, a Robert Henley of Lenox, Massachusetts. That’s fairly near where Liz lives … lived.” She swallowed hard. “I’m sure he could point you to Liz’s next of kin and so on.”

Here she looked at Schenk directly. “One thing I can tell you for certain is that Lizabeth Mulgrew was making plans for whatever future she had left, and she seemed sure she had enough time to do a little traveling. She mentioned places like Australia and Africa. She had absolutely no idea that she would die in that hotel room within a few hours. My question to you is, why did she?”

In the deafening silence that followed May’s question, Schenk held her gaze unflinchingly. The two seemed to come to a decision about each other as the rest of us froze, wondering what drama was unfolding here. Schenk didn’t keep us waiting long.

“I’ve been wondering about that quite a bit myself, ma’am. You could say it’s my nature to wonder about things that don’t feel just right, and this is one of them. I spent twenty years on the job in Cincinnati, working mostly homicide, and I learned to trust my gut over my eyes every time. I haven’t had that feeling since I started work at the hotel almost three years ago, but I had it today in Ms. Mulgrew’s hotel room. It just didn’t add up.”

We were all riveted. May’s eyes never left Schenk’s face.

“Tell me,” she said.

Schenk looked around the room.

“These people are my trusted associates. You can speak freely in front of them,” May assured him. She threw a don’t-let-me-down look at Becky and Duane, and they nodded an acknowledgment.

“For one thing, everything was almost too neat, and yet it wasn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Margo and I chorused, and May grinned outright. Even Schenk’s lips twitched.

“Well, as I said, her suitcase was packed and open, ready for the toothbrush and things still out in the bathroom, but something didn’t look right. I mean, most people put the heaviest things, like shoes, on the bottom, but Ms. Mulgrew’s shoes were on top of her clothes as if someone had gone through her suitcase and put things back wrong.”

“You’re right, Mr. Schenk,” Isabelle agreed. “A man might do that if he was in a tearing hurry, but a woman never would.”

“Same thing with her handbag. The inside had a lot of zippered compartments and pockets, but they were all unzipped and empty. Everything was just piled into the middle of the bag. It doesn’t make sense to me that a lady would buy an expensive organizer bag and not make use of it.”

“Maybe she did,” I threw in, beating Margo to the punch, “but somebody else in a hurry pulled everything out of the pockets and then dumped it back in the middle.”

Schenk nodded. “Exactly. There was one more thing, but this might be kind of upsetting.” He paused as if assessing our ability to hear it.

“Please go on, Mr. Schenk. We’re tougher than we look,” May prompted. The rest of us murmured assent, although Margo reached for her aunt’s hand.

Schenk took a sip of his now cold coffee and cleared his throat. “It was the body, the way it was lying in the bed almost as if it had been arranged. I would have expected her to be on her side, maybe, with the pillows bunched up and the covers messy, but it wasn’t like that. She was flat on her back, pillow under her head, covers neatly pulled up to her chin and folded down. It looked to me like her hair had been combed. It was almost, what’s the word, ceremonial.” He frowned into his mug, remembering. “And then there was the letter.”

“What about the letter, Mr. Schenk?” May prodded.

He looked back at her. “You’d expect to find that on the desk or maybe in her purse, ready to mail. But after they … removed the body, a maid found it shoved under the guest pillow along with the Pilot pen Ms. Mulgrew must have been using to write it.”

We were quiet for a minute before Duane put into words what every one of us was thinking. “It sounds like she was expecting someone to be looking for it, and she didn’t want them to find it.”