Swan Song (11 page)

When Margo came down the stairs shortly after five o’clock, she took one look at May and me and asked, “What’s wrong?”

May summarized the phone fiasco with the Hilton and slumped against the back of the sofa, shame and fury comingling on her face. “Are Duane and Becky still in the office?” she asked anxiously. “I can’t bear having those children know what an old fool I’ve been.”

“They’re long gone, and the front door is locked,” Margo assured her. She marched behind the desk and yanked open the bottom left drawer, which is where we keep the Jim Beam. Okay, and a fifth of vodka for Strutter. She pulled out the bourbon and three plastic cups from the stash and distributed three substantial slugs before joining May on the sofa.

I’d been too shocked by May’s story to say anything right away, but a clarifying surge of anger loosened my tongue. “If you’ve been a fool, you’re no worse than the rest of us, May, and it won’t do Duane and Becky any harm to get a reality lesson. Schenk apparently had us all hoodwinked. Every one of us, including Isabelle, sat in the lobby last Friday and lapped up his story.”

“He had business cards,” Margo protested.

“Which he could have gotten printed at Staples or Office Depot in about ten minutes,” May scoffed. “He was just so plausible in the role he’d invented for himself. He described Lizabeth’s room in such detail, true or not, and he was so gentlemanly about getting her letter to me personally.” She covered her eyes with one hand. “I trusted him completely on the strength of five minutes’ acquaintance. I actually gave him a copy of the letter, just handed over the whole thing.”

“Don’t give that a second thought,” Margo huffed. “Remember, he came in here with that letter. I’m sure he not only read the whole thing ahead of time but probably made himself a few photocopies …”

“… while he was having his business cards printed,” I finished up. “That’s why he cracked Lizabeth’s code so much faster than we did. He had a head start.”

“But how did he even get the letter if he’s not who he says he is?” May wailed. “How did he get into Lizabeth’s room? Or if it was someone else, who got in there, discovered her dead, found the letter and gave it to him? And why? None of this makes any sense. I’m completely lost.”

“No more so than the rest of us,” I muttered. I got to my feet, too angry to keep still, and began pacing the floor in front of the window. “Let’s go back to what we know is true. Lord knows, it isn’t much.”

We were quiet for a few seconds as we thought about that. I continued to pace.

“I have to go all the way back to Thursday’s meet-and-greet at the Hilton,” May said, “when we were listening to Lizzie’s rant on the fire stairs. Then we walked her to her room and said goodnight. We all saw her open the door and go in. After that, everything I thought I knew for a fact was really told to me by someone else, mostly Martin Schenk, if that’s even his real name.”

We let that possibility sink in, and then Margo chimed in. “We don’t even know how Lizabeth died or exactly when. All we know is what Schenk told us about how she seemed to be laid out ceremonially and how it looked as if her suitcase had been searched. We don’t that any of his story is true, but if it is, how did Schenk find out about it?” She suddenly looked stricken and grabbed May’s arm. “Oh, my god, do we even know for sure that Lizabeth
died
?”

May laid a calming hand over Margo’s. “That much I do know is true. I’ve seen several obituaries on line, official ones published in newspapers. Those have to come from approved sources such as funeral homes. They said she ‘died suddenly,’ which could mean almost anything, and they listed Lizzie’s survivors and requested donations to the American Heart Association, which fits with her telling me in her letter that she’d received a bad diagnosis. They weren’t at all like that vague announcement in the association newsletter about Trague. Which brings us back to how did Martin know all those details about how Lizzie died and what her room looked like? How did he get that letter?” She looked from Margo to me, her eyes pleading for answers.

I decided to state the obvious. “Either he was in her room himself, or he had an accomplice who was.”

“Or he made all those details up, too, to make himself sound more plausible as chief of security,” Margo amended. “Still, even if he invented the whole scenario, he had to get the letter somehow. He had it in his pocket, and he brought it to May.” She paused as if uncertain how to ask her next question. “Auntie May, are you sure the letter is in Lizabeth Mulgrew’s handwriting?”

I was shocked at the possibility of a forgery, but May didn’t bat an eye. “Oh, yes. That much I am sure of. Lizzie and I exchanged many notes and cards over the years. She had a peculiar habit of crossing her T’s to the right side only, and her longhand slanted to the left, even though she was right-handed. It’s Lizzie’s writing.”

Margo and I subsided into our bourbon, somewhat reassured on that point.

“So we know Lizabeth Mulgrew wrote the letter, which clearly states that she wants May to have publishing rights to the as-yet-unpublished final manuscript of W.Z.B. Trague. We also know that at least two people, besides those of us at the Law Barn, know the letter exists: Schenk and May’s attorney,” I summed up.

“Schenk and an accomplice,” said Margo at the same time.

May looked startled. “Which is it? And what makes you think Lizzie’s lawyer knew about the letter?”

Her question gave me pause. “She said so right in it, didn’t she?” Now I wasn’t at all sure.

“No, she simply said her attorney in Lenox would take care of shutting down her business and so on while she did some traveling. She didn’t say he knew about Trague’s manuscript. She was writing the letter by hand in the wee hours of Friday morning, remember. She had no way of sending him a copy until the next day.” She stopped speaking abruptly, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Maybe she called him,” Margo suggested, giving May time to recover herself.

“At five o’clock in the morning? Doubtful,” I reminded her. “She was counting on May to find the manuscript and use Lizabeth’s original, handwritten letter to prove she had the rights to it.”

“It’s the only proof I have,” May said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, “and Martin had to know that, so why would he, and possibly an accomplice, give the letter to me when they had to know they had the only copy? Not only is it the sole clue to the manuscript’s whereabouts, it’s the only shred of evidence I could possibly produce after finding it to prove my right to publish it. Why wouldn’t they just solve the puzzle, find the flash drive and leave me out of the picture? I wouldn’t have known a thing about it.”

We all gave that some thought.

“Maybe they were simply being careful,” I threw out as a possibility. “You were seen with Lizabeth earlier that evening. If Schenk was skulking around the hotel, he might have been aware of your heart-to-heart on the fire stairs. Maybe he or his accomplice was one flight up or down, listening, but couldn’t be sure what was said. He couldn’t be certain who else might know about Lizabeth’s intentions, so he decided to take on an ingenuous persona, showing up here and acting like the perfect honorable gentleman, delivering the letter and getting you to trust him. He could stay close to you, find out what you knew, even help you find the manuscript and then …”

Margo’s eyes were wide. “And then what, Kate?”

“And then eliminate the only witness to Lizabeth’s real intentions,” May said flatly. “Once he’d determined that no one else knew, I’d be the only remaining obstacle to his making millions.” She took in our shocked expressions. “After all, we don’t really know how Lizzie died, do we?”

Margo sat very still, clutching her aunt’s hand.

“Not to worry, dearie,” May said lightly. “Martin’s plan had a major flaw, and that is all of you, my dear friends. He must have been aghast when I asked Becky to make all those photocopies and passed them out to you right in front of him.” She giggled at the memory. “He can’t very well do away with all of us, now, can he?” We were pretty sure she was kidding.

By the time we’d polished off the Jim Beam, we had formulated a plan for the next day. Most importantly, May would not be alone at any time for the foreseeable future. With great reluctance and many protestations, she was persuaded to move into John and Margo’s guest room for a few days. “It’s either that, or I move in with you, Auntie May, and as fond as he is of you, my husband would not be happy about that,” Margo told her, so she finally agreed.

Next, we would enlist John Harkness to see what, if anything, he could find out about the true identity of Martin Schenk. We were distressed to discover that the only information we had among us to give John was a physical description and the make and model of the car he had been driving. Since that was almost certainly a rental, we were hoping whatever credentials the man had given to the rental company, if it could be located, would help us identify the man himself.

Finally, May would make an appointment with Robert Henley, Esq., of Lenox, Massachusetts, and she and Margo would go to see him on Tuesday, if possible. As much as I longed to be a part of that meeting, we did have businesses to run. Isabelle and Duane could hold the fort upstairs at Romantic Nights. Between us, Becky and I could probably just manage the Mack Realty phones, since Margo’s appointments would have to be canceled and rescheduled. Fortunately, our next stint at Vista View wasn’t until Wednesday, when Strutter would be back with us. Business was picking up, and life was becoming extremely complicated, so we would all simply have to do the best we could.

As I washed out our mugs and glasses, locked the doors and turned out the lights, I was almost glad Armando would be in Florida with his TeleCom colleagues for a few more days. For the most part, my husband had become accustomed to what he called the “curious misadventures” of Margo, Strutter and me—more so than I would have believed possible when we were first married, but it would distress him to think of me in the house alone under the circumstances. So far, my involvement in this bizarre situation had been minimal, but I had been quite visible with May at the Mysteries USA convention not once, but twice, and Schenk knew I had possession of Lizabeth’s letter, so it wasn’t beyond imagination to think I might be in jeopardy, however peripheral, if he and his accomplice (We were fairly certain by now that he must have one.) got frustrated or jittery.

Accordingly, I answered Armando’s evening check-in call in my most cheerful voice and filled him in on every irrelevant detail of my day I could think of, carefully omitting any mention of recent developments in the Lizabeth Mulgrew Affair, as I’d come to think of it. I felt a touch guilty as I prattled on about the weather, the newest leak in the Law Barn’s roof and Gracie’s latest antics, but I told myself it was in Armando’s best interest to keep him in the dark. If things had not been resolved by the time his plane touched down at Bradley International on Sunday afternoon, I would have to fess up, but until then, why make him worry?

“So that’s about it at this end, handsome,” I finished up. “Are things winding down with your meetings and so on? Are you going to get any more time on the golf course?”

“I do not believe so,
Cara
. We managed to fit in nine holes on Sunday, but I think the rest of my time here will be spent in front of a computer. Since the merger, there have been many software changes, and those of us from the Connecticut branch office are still attempting to get up to speed. Tomorrow we are facing instruction on the new payroll processing system, and the next day we must meet with the corporate counsel about changes in our standard contracts.” He sighed heavily. “So no more golf, I’m afraid.”

Yuck, it all sounded incredibly dreary. I scrambled to find something to cheer him up. “Still, they must have something pleasant planned for your last evening together, and it usually involves fantastic food and wine, am I right?” My Colombian spouse had a taste for the finer things in life, and he brightened almost audibly at this reminder.

“You are correct. There is a wine tasting at the Lakeridge Vineyard in mid-afternoon on Saturday and a banquet planned for us that evening back at the convention center. We are very much looking forward to it, providing we can keep our eyes open. Thank heaven the company is providing transportation to and from the vineyard.” He paused. “
Cara
, you are not usually especially interested in the corporate schedule. Is there something you are not telling me?”

Yikes, I had forgotten about his uncanny ability to read me and had gone overboard on the cheerful enthusiasm. “Just that Gracie and I miss you a lot,” I assured him, crossing my fingers behind my back. “It’s unusual for you to be away from us for nearly two weeks.”

He decided to take my word for it. “Yes, I miss my girls, too. What is the news from Emma in Oregon?”

I glommed onto the change of subject and gave him a two-minute update on my daughter, on whom he doted. Then I blew him a kiss, wished him a good night’s sleep and ended the call. As I replaced the wireless handset in its base in the living room, Gracie opened one eye where she lay curled in Armando’s side of our double recliner and assessed my next move. Would I sit down next to her and turn on the TV, or would I head for the bathtub and bed? I leaned over and scritched her orange head.

“No TV tonight, fur ball. I’ve had quite enough of this day, and tomorrow isn’t looking a whole lot better. Come on, let’s get ready for bed.”

It didn’t take long for Tuesday to go downhill. When I fed the water fowl at the pond, I was disappointed that there was still no sign of Fray; and at the marsh overpass, a flock of crows were preparing to crowd out the little songbirds. Figuring I might be able to divide and conquer, I split the seed in half and poured it out in two widely separated patches, but it didn’t work. The crows promptly descended on both offerings, so I gave up and decided to return at lunchtime or send Becky with more seed.