Swan Song (18 page)

“Hand me one of those paper cups, and let’s get pourin’. I promise to send you a replacement bottle, if we ever get out of here,” Margo promised.

“Me, too, please,” was all I added, but it seemed to seal the deal. Marian still looked doubtful about the wisdom of offering us spirits, but she shrugged and handed me the flashlight so she could use both hands to pour and distribute the sherry. She would very likely benefit from a slug of it herself, I thought.

Instead of promoting another round of the giggles, the excellent wine calmed and warmed us. We snuggled into each other on the couch like a litter of puppies and started a game of Pet Peeve, a pastime my partners and I had developed over the years. “We’ve heard most of each other’s pet peeves, like people who constantly yap on their cell phones in public places and drivers who flick their cigarette butts out the car window as if the world is their personal ashtray,” Margo told Marian, “so give us a new perspective. What drives you to distraction about workin’ here? Go on, let it all out. We’ve trusted you with our most important secret at the moment. You’re among friends, and it feels absolutely divine to vent.”

Perhaps because her tongue had been loosened by fatigue and sherry, Marian replied promptly. “Slap-slap shoes. You know, those backless thongs and sandals that slap the bottom of the wearer’s foot with every step? They make me crazy. Why would anyone want to make a racket like that, especially in a library?”

“Hear hear,” I agreed, and May murmured her agreement. Pleased with our response, Marian took another sip and warmed to the theme.

“You’re right, this does feel great. How about the continual, senseless, ungrammatical use of the word ‘like’ by ninety percent of the general population? Like, you know, they can’t finish a sentence, like, without it? Even senior managers and experienced public speakers have acquired the habit, and instead of wearing itself out, as most trendy words and phrases do, the misuse seems to be gaining daily.”

May groaned in sympathy. “It’s especially odd, because I never see it used in the prose I’ve spent half my adult life editing. There are lots of other mistakes, but that particular one seems limited to the spoken word.”

“And cute spellings,” Marian continued, clearly on a roll now. “A new coffee shop opened just down the street from here, and I almost shrieked when I saw the sign on the front: The Koffee Kupboard spelled with K’s, both words.”

I looked at her, shocked. “Oh my god, it’s a chain. There’s one near us in Connecticut, too.”

After that, we decided to attempt to nap a little and called a moratorium on conversation. Somewhere in the main area of the library, a thud sounded as if someone had dropped a book. Margo clutched my arm again. “That’s some monster mouse,” she whispered, and I giggled before sinking into a sherry-fueled drowse. Frankly, both of us were too weary to care.

In the wee hours of Saturday morning, the electricity came back on, and we were awakened by glaring lights and the click and hum of computers springing back to life in offices and cubicles throughout the building.

“Hurray,” Marian cheered softly from her spot at the end of the big sofa, and we all stretched and groaned and scrubbed at our eyes as we untangled ourselves from our nest. Marian wrapped her coat tightly around her and hurried to pull open a door next to the office of the children’s librarian. After listening intently, she gave us a big thumbs up. “The furnace is back on,” she announced. “It will take a while yet for it to overcome this chill, but at least there’s hope—and if I’m not mistaken, the town plows are in the library parking lot. Now, who’s for some hot coffee?”

After cleaning ourselves up hastily in the staff bathroom and downing the very welcome coffee, we bid Marian farewell with heartfelt thanks, an I.O.U. for a bottle of excellent sherry, and a promise to let her know how our quest for the Trague manuscript turned out. Each of us gave her a business card with our work and home phone numbers, and of course, we knew where to reach her. One of the town workers was kind enough to clean the snow off the Volvo and dig out the front and sides, where he’d had no choice but to plow us in. “What happened to the other car that was out here?” May asked him, looking around.

“The guy with the SUV? He was digging himself out when we got here,” said our obliging snow remover. “Said he was in a big hurry, so we just plowed him a straight run from where he was parked to the exit. He was out of here in minutes.”

May looked at me and Margo, who had limped out of the library with surprising agility. The swelling of her ankle had subsided somewhat during the night, no doubt aided by her enforced idleness. “What did he look like, do you remember?”

The man shrugged. “Hard to say with the parka and scarf and hat pulled down over his ears. Medium height, medium build. You know, just a guy. Friend of yours?”

“No,” May told him firmly, “not a friend. I feel very certain about that.”

We were all thoughtful as we climbed into the car and fastened our seat belts, this time with me at the wheel. “So the rustling and the thud weren’t due to mice,” Margo said next to me, finally voicing what we were all thinking.

“Don’t forget the missing cookies,” May added from the back seat. We looked blank until she reminded us of what Marian had said about not being able to find the cookies. “I believe we did have a rodent for company last night—a very large rat named Martin.”

“Does he drive an SUV?” I asked her.

“There are car rental places all over Hartford County,” May replied. “Just because he wasn’t driving one when we went to dinner doesn’t mean he couldn’t get his hands on one, especially when he knew a major snowstorm was headed our way.”

“True enough,” Margo agreed, “but havin’ gone to all the trouble to stay mobile, even in the snow, why would he choose to get himself stranded with us in the library all night?”

We chewed on that one for a bit. “Maybe the storm sneaked up on him just like it did on us,” I offered. “We all knew it was coming. Why didn’t we keep a closer eye on it?”

“Because we’d had a lousy, extended trip up here, and we were all trying to avoid thinking about the return trip,” said May. “Besides, we got all caught up in searching for the flash drive on the underside of that shelf.”

“Not to mention insultin’ me while I thrashed on the floor,” Margo reminded us. “I know you’re totally convinced that our mystery man was Martin Schenk, Auntie May, but what if it wasn’t? What if the man whose SUV was in the parking lot all night was someone else entirely?”

“Like who?” May demanded.

I shrugged. I did see Margo’s point. “Like another library patron who got stuck in the building with us, or maybe he spent the night in his car.”

May scoffed. “Another patron would have showed himself to us, and nobody would choose to freeze in a car all night when clearly, there was still somebody in the library who might help him. We all heard funny noises, remember. Oh, no, he was in there with us, all right, and he didn’t want us to know it.”

But Margo refused to be dissuaded. “Maybe the man was visitin’ somebody in those apartments on the other side of the parking lot, got stuck and had to spend the night there. Then he came out real early and dug himself out when he saw the plows come through.”

May glared at her, and I hastened to smooth things over. “Either of your theories could be correct, but they’re still only theories. The fact is, we have no way of knowing. My feeling is that we should err on the side of caution and assume Mr. Schenk, or whoever he really is, was trailing us yesterday. It can’t have been easy, what with the accident and traffic and so on, so we should be prepared to be confronted at some point by a man who’s pretty serious about getting his hands on that flash drive.”

The drive home was uneventful, and traffic was light, it being a Saturday. I never liked driving a strange vehicle, so I was especially careful, but the highway had been well tended during the night. Even the secondary roads in Wethersfield were relatively clear and well sanded, I noted gratefully. We stopped briefly at a handy CVS on the Silas Deane Highway to pick up an ace bandage for Margo, then proceeded to May’s little house on Wheeler Road. I would drive home to The Birches from there, and Margo would drive herself home, she decided, since it was her left ankle that had been injured.

The charming
cul de sac
on which May’s house was located looked pristine in the dazzling, post-storm sunlight, but her driveway had not yet been cleared. “Can you manage to get in?” I asked her, but I should have known May would be prepared.

She rummaged in her purse. “I have the automatic garage door opener in here somewhere. Aha, got it!” She brandished it triumphantly. “Here’s hoping the door isn’t frozen to the ground. That happened to me once, and it wasn’t pretty.” She covered her eyes, pointed the device at the garage and pressed the button. To everyone’s relief, the door slid up smoothly.

Margo was peering at the snow-filled driveway, a frown on her face. “Why are there tracks in the snow leading around the back, Auntie May? Do you have a newspaper delivered or somethin’?”

May paused with her hand on the car door. “No, I don’t. I can’t imagine why those big footprints are there. They don’t seem to lead anywhere except my back yard.”

We all stared some more, and then Margo and I exchanged a look.

“Hang on, May. I’m going in with you. The last thing we need is another twisted ankle to add to our collection,” I said lightly and climbed out of the driver’s seat into the snow. “For three intelligent women, we didn’t think through this snow situation very well. My boots are in the trunk of my car at home, and I suppose yours are in your car right there in the garage.”

May’s grin let me know I’d guessed correctly, and she seemed glad to take my arm. Together, we floundered through the ten inches or so of snow that had accumulated during the night. I craned my neck to see where the mysterious footprints led, my misgivings multiplying as I realized there were no return tracks to the street. Perhaps whoever had made them had proceeded across the back yard, I hoped and prayed. Otherwise, he was waiting for us inside May’s house.

We clambered over the last of the snow, which was even deeper where it had piled up in front of the door, and landed inside the dry garage with relief. As we bent down to brush off our shoes, which were pretty much ruined after the last twenty-four hours, I felt a cold breeze whip through the space and looked up to see that a rear window had been broken. “Was that window broken when we left yesterday?” I asked May.

She followed my pointing finger with eyes that widened as they took in the broken glass, then shook her head slowly. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and signaled to Margo that it was me calling her.

“The tracks in the snow lead to the back of the house, and there’s a broken window in the garage,” I told her when she answered. “I’m going inside with May. Keep an eye on us, please. I’m going to keep you on the line just in case.” Then May climbed the four steps that led to a door between the garage and the inside of the house and turned the knob. I put a hand on her arm.

“Don’t you ever keep that door locked?”

“In this neighborhood? Why ever would I need to do that?” she said, but she looked abashed. We were both remembering the events of two years ago when she had been victimized by neighborhood pranksters over a period of several weeks.

“Oh, lord,” Margo moaned into the phone and opened her car door.

“No, stay where you are,” I told her. “There’s no way you can make it through that snow without doing more damage to yourself. Just be ready to dial 911 if we holler.”

May eased open the door, which led directly into a small dining room in the little Cape Cod house, and her expression changed from frightened to angry. Make that totally pissed off. She threw the door open the rest of the way and stomped inside. I followed, my cell phone still clamped to my ear.

“Oh my god,” I breathed in horror, unable to say anything further for a few seconds.

“What is it? What’s going on in there?” Margo yelled, suddenly frantic.

I stood and attempted to take in the devastation around me as May stormed into the kitchen and let out a string of cuss words I’d never before heard her—or anyone else—utter.

“Is Auntie May all right? For god’s sake, Kate, speak to me!”

I swallowed hard. “We’re both all right. It’s May’s house that’s not. I … I can’t seem to find words to describe it. I’m standing in the dining room, and it’s been completely tossed. Drawers have been pulled out and emptied on the floor. There’s broken glass everywhere. Those beautiful botanical prints she had framed and hung on the wall between the house and the garage have been slashed.” I gulped and breathed in deeply through my nose, knowing Margo needed as much information as I could give her. “The upholstery on the chairs surrounding the table has been ripped open, and the padding is all over the floor. Oh, Margo, it’s just awful.”

In the way of small towns everywhere, the officers who responded to Margo’s 911 call were familiar to all of us. Blond, lanky Johansson and redheaded, muscular MacNamara knew the house and all of us from May’s harassment episode two years previously. Although it had been resolved successfully and certainly had been no fault of hers, it was somehow embarrassing for May to be the focus of yet another investigation. She smiled apologetically at the young police officers. “Hi, there. Long time, no see,” she joked weakly after letting them in by way of the connecting door to the garage. “I’m sure you remember my friend Kate Lawrence, and of course, Margo Harkness, who’s waiting out in the car.”

As if summoned by the awkward introduction, Margo herself banged on the door. I opened it to reveal her husband, Lieutenant John Harkness of the Wethersfield Police Department, standing on the landing, carrying his wife. Except for his graying hair and weary eyes, he looked for all the world like a young groom, crossing the threshold with his bride.