Swan Song (4 page)

“Where are we sitting?” I asked her. “The seats all seem to be up for grabs. As an award nominee, don’t you sit at the head table?”

“Not today, thank goodness. That’s Saturday’s little horror. Right now I’m just trying to keep from being cornered by some over-eager and minimally talented hopeful who wants to pick my brain about how to get published. Quick, over there.”

She grabbed my arm and tugged me toward the last row of tables, still relatively unoccupied, where we snagged two empty seats at the near end. “Fire stairs are right there,” May crowed triumphantly, pointing at a nearby door. “When this shindig looks as if it’s winding down, we can slide on out of here and be in the lobby in two shakes.”

“Wow, you really know all the angles,” I complimented her, impressed.

“Honey, when you’ve been to as many of these tedious things as I have, you learn never to walk into a room without knowing where the nearest exit is and how to get through it fast without drawing attention to yourself. It’s Convention Survival 101.”

I nodded appreciatively, never having been a fan of large functions myself. I’d spent many years schmoozing potential clients and investors as part of my marketing and public relations jobs before I met Margo and Strutter. In those years my primary goals at large gatherings were finding a parking spot that would facilitate a hasty retreat when I was ready to leave, then putting in the acceptable minimum of time without glancing at my watch too often.

“I hear you. Making chit-chat with a bunch of strangers bores me witless. So how did you get roped into attending Mysteries USA this year?”

May sighed heavily. “I could have made up an excuse, I guess, but it has to mean a lot to Lizzie to have two of her authors nominated for the top prize. I know you must have your doubts about her after last night’s little performance in the stair well, but Lizabeth Mulgrew has been a good friend to me over the years. With the annual convention being held so close to Wethersfield, it seemed the least I could do was show up for a couple of functions—and the awards dinner, of course.”

As I gazed around at the now mostly seated attendees, May pretended to be engrossed in the conference program, which she held in front of her face.

“There aren’t many men here, are there?” I noted, prompting a snort from May that was so like Margo’s, I smiled. Another trait that must run in the Farnsworth gene pool. “Don’t men write mystery novels these days?”

“They surely do. In fact, some of the very best mystery writers are men. They just seem to have enough sense not to come to these idiotic functions unless they’re getting paid to speak.”

“Are these seats taken?” Two elderly ladies who could be sisters, with their cropped gray hair and Warby Parker specs, hesitated beside us.

“Help yourselves,” May invited cheerfully since they clearly didn’t recognize her, a definite plus in luncheon table mates.

“How did you and Lizabeth Mulgrew get to know each other anyway?” I asked as the remaining seats at our table quickly filled with chattering women.

May smoothed her already perfect hair and wrinkled her forehead in an effort to remember. “It seems as if we’ve known each other forever, but that can’t be true. Let’s see. I wrote my first Ariadne Merriwether story nearly twenty years ago. Even back then, I knew the big publishers wouldn’t be interested in a little cozy by an unknown, so I just skipped the whole agent hassle and sent copies to every independent mystery publisher I could find in
Jeff Herman’s Guide to Book Publishers, Editors and Literary Agents
, which was the go-to reference for the industry,” she chuckled. “I didn’t know yet that simultaneous submissions were a big no-no. Lizabeth was just starting out and looking for new authors to sign. She liked what she read, and the rest is history.”

“Good luck tonight, May,” called a woman a few seats down and across from us.

“You, too,” May responded. She raised a hand in acknowledgment before ducking back behind her program. “Jessica Price, my heavy competition,” she whispered to me. A flutter of curiosity among our table mates followed this exchange, but it was mercifully deflected by the wait staff, who swooped in from the kitchen to begin distributing entrees.

I shifted slightly to make room for a young man bearing our lunches, which he deposited before us with admirable speed and precision. I cringed as I remembered my high school job at a local luncheonette, where I routinely mixed up orders and dropped plates before getting fired.

“Okay, but why are we here now? If you have to be at the awards dinner tomorrow, why put yourself through two of these things?”

May lowered her voice discreetly. “I confess I’m curious to know what Lizzie is going to say in her keynote address. Frankly, she sounded a little out of control last night.” She looked around cautiously to be sure no one was paying attention to her, but those nearest to us were already tucking into their chicken Caesar salads. “You’ll have to take my word for it, since last night was the first time you met her, but Lizzie’s behavior really upset me. It’s one thing to get too far into the gin and tonic after a long day at the convention, but I never saw Lizzie actually reeling before. And the bitterness was totally unlike her. Like most of us in this crazy business, Lizzie struggled on a daily basis to meet payroll, deal with ever-changing technology and cutthroat competition, and manage the over-inflated egos of her authors, but she always kept her sense of humor. Last night it was as if she had nothing but contempt for all of us, and I didn’t get the impression it was just the gin talking. Something else is going on. She has me worried. Where is she anyway?”

May craned her neck to scan the head table, but Lizabeth Mulgrew was not in evidence. May shrugged, and we picked up our forks as a distinguished looking blonde approached the microphone and introduced herself as the president of Mysteries USA. As she welcomed the attendees and their guests and read some of the program notices before her, she shuffled her notes nervously and kept looking over the frames of her reading glasses, obviously looking for someone. Another staff member approached and whispered to the president, who covered the microphone with her hand and fired disbelieving questions at her beleaguered colleague. She looked totally flabbergasted but recovered her composure quickly, at least outwardly.

“I’m very sorry to tell you that I’ve just received word that Lizabeth Mulgrew, our keynote speaker, has been called away on a family emergency and can’t be with us today as she had planned. I’m sure most of you are familiar with Lizabeth’s independent publishing company, Sherlock Press, and know that not one but two of Sherlock’s authors, Jessica Price and Maybelle Farnsworth, are in the running for the best mystery of the year award to be presented at tomorrow evening’s dinner. I know Lizabeth must be heartsick to miss it, but we can all appreciate that family comes first. I’m sure we’ll all hold a good thought. I do hope you won’t let this little setback spoil your enjoyment of an excellent lunch and each other’s company.”

Her face lit up as an idea occurred to her. “I suggest that we all take this opportunity to do a little networking, which is what these conferences are all about, right? To that end, what say we take a little break before dessert and change our seats, get to know someone new! I’ll let you know when it’s time.”

She smiled broadly at the assembled membership, well satisfied with her brainstorm, and ignored the general grumbling that swept across the tables before returning to her seat.

“Ohhh, no you don’t,” May muttered. “Sorry, Kate, no dessert for you. When it’s time to change seats, I plan to change mine right out the door. I’m in no mood for party games. Poor Lizzie, no wonder she was in such a bad mood last night. I wonder what’s going on, but I guess it’s really none of our business.”

I brushed aside her apology. “I don’t know anyone here but you anyway, and I’m pretty sure no one is going to want to network with a Wethersfield, Connecticut, realtor,” I assured her. “When the time comes, shall we head for the fire stairs or take advantage of the general confusion and make a run for the escalator?”

“Escalator, I think. With my luck today, opening that fire door would probably set off an alarm. Not an appealing prospect.”

With our escape plan in place, we concentrated on shoveling chicken salad into our mouths and washing it down with surprisingly good coffee. We crumpled our napkins on the table and located our handbags under the table, alert for the signal that it was getaway time. In a few minutes the president returned to the microphone to announce, “Time to change seats, everyone. Come on now, don’t grumble,” she chided as her announcement produced a wave of groans and muttering from diners who clearly would prefer to remain where they were. “Up you get! Time to broaden your horizons by getting some fresh perspectives.” She actually clapped her hands for emphasis as if she were a schoolteacher addressing a particularly recalcitrant class of fourth graders.

Slowly, chairs were pushed back and belongings retrieved before the first reluctant table changers made their move, and the rest soon followed. I noted with amusement that the two ladies who had been seated next to us simply moved together to another table.

“She should have had every other person change tables, not everyone,” May commented as we observed the same tactic being repeated around the room.

We made a beeline for the main entrance to the ballroom, where the wait staff stood looking confused by the uproar before them, dessert trays held aloft. “I thought there was supposed to be a speech or something,” said a young woman with spiky hair and a nose ring as we pushed open the door.

“Just a little change of plans,” May told her, “but not to worry. They’ll settle back down in a minute.” She squeezed through the door. I did my best to look sympathetic and followed suit.

After the crowded ballroom, it was a relief to ride the escalator to the nearly deserted lobby, where I called Duane on my cell phone. He was clearly startled to be summoned so soon.

“It hasn’t been more than forty-five minutes,” he protested. “I haven’t even started my pecan pie.”

“If it’s any comfort, we didn’t get our dessert either. Get a to-go box and pick us up in front of the hotel,” I told him heartlessly and disconnected.

We sagged into chairs that offered a view of the pick-up zone outside the main entrance. May closed her eyes, and I was dismayed to see how tired she looked. May was always so sharp and energetic, I considered her Margo’s contemporary, more than her aunt, but the woman was well into her seventies, I reminded myself.

“I wish you didn’t have to come back here tomorrow,” I said.

“Believe me, honey, I wish that, too.” She opened her eyes and frowned. “I’m really worried about Lizzie after her drunken rant last night and now this so-called family emergency. I don’t want to intrude, but I’m going to call her when we get back to the office.”

“Do you think she made up the family emergency thing to get out of speaking today?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me, especially the mood she’s been in,” May replied thoughtfully.

Duane pulled the Jetta up to the door, and we hurried to claim our ride.

By mid-afternoon Margo and I were hunkered down in the Mack Realty office, returning phone calls and setting up house viewings for the coming week.

“Fresh coffee, wage slaves,” May called down the half-flight of stairs from the lobby, and we were more than ready to carry our empty mugs up to refill. The two youngsters were at Becky’s desk, packing and labeling boxes of last year’s closing files to make way for this year’s paperwork. They took frequent breaks to work on the crossword puzzle in a copy of the
Hartford Courant
some visitor had left in the lobby.

“I’m surprised y’all know what a real newspaper is,” Margo snarked in passing.

“Very useful for lining birdcages, my old grannie tells me,” Duane retorted without looking up.

“Don’t be such a smartass,” Becky admonished. She grinned at Margo. “I think newspapers are very fun, antiquated but interesting. I absolutely love the comic strips and how the characters never get any older. How old do you figure Dagwood and Blondie are now?”

“How about Funky Winkerbean?” I said, ignoring her question. “The last I saw, he’s nearly as ancient as we are, and he started out as a high school kid.”

“Unfortunately, Funky’s not likely to get any older. I’d be surprised if printed newspapers last another five years,” May said wistfully. “I’ll miss them. It’s such a nice way to start the day, especially knowing I’ll be staring at a lighted screen for the bulk of my time.”

“Did you reach Lizabeth Mulgrew?” I asked May as she poured out fresh coffee, which we carried to the sitting area by Becky’s desk. Margo and I flopped onto the sofa, and May chose an overstuffed side chair. We’d removed a mouse nest from the sofa a few months ago, and May had avoided it ever since.

“Her phone went right to voice mail. I’ll try her again this evening. I sure hope she’s all right,” May responded before changing the subject. “What are your plans for the weekend? Whatever they are, I’ll bet they’re more fun than mine. It’s too bad the awards dinner is for members only, or I’d drag you and Margo there by the hair.”

Margo snorted into her mug. “You would, too. Well, I’m happy to say I’ll be spendin’ tomorrow evenin’ with my handsome husband. We’ve got reserved seats for
Bridge of Spies
in that posh West Hartford theater with the reclining chairs, but if we don’t like the movie, I’m sure we’ll think of somethin’ else to do.” She smiled lasciviously, doubtless thinking about John Harkness, her attractive husband of only a few years and a senior member of the Wethersfield Police Department.

“Knock off the ribald references; there are children present.” I indicated Duane and Becky, who executed simultaneous eye rolls. “I’m afraid my Saturday is allocated to grocery shopping and laundry. Armando will be in Florida playing with his Telecom friends for another week, so it’s up to me to keep Gracie company until then.” Our ginger cat Grace had made her preference for my husband clear from her first days with us as a two-year-old rescue cat, but she managed to put up with me when needs must. A food source was a food source.