Swan Song (7 page)

“I have absolutely no idea. Do I have a wireless network?” May looked around, perplexed.

Duane put on his patient teenager face. “You have internet access in your office upstairs, right?”

May nodded. “Of course. I wouldn’t be able to run my business without it.”

“And when you use your laptop down here, you can still access the internet.” She nodded again. “So you must have a network. It’s probably secured, but I can get on it if I have the code. Do you have a black box upstairs with a lot of, um, twinkling lights?”

“I was never sure what that was for. I had a computer tech set it up for me. It’s on top of the little file cabinet next to my desk.”

“Back in a flash.” Duane scrambled to his feet and thundered up the stairs.

“The key’s probably right on the black box,” Becky assured us.

Within seconds, Duane galloped back down the stairs, his fingers already busy on his phone. “Bingo,” he said. “This will go much faster now.”

By 10:30 p.m. our heads were swimming with song lyrics and titles assembled in dozens of configurations, but we were no closer to achieving our goal. May closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the sofa. “That’s it for tonight,” she pronounced. “I’m exhausted. Making up puzzles for someone else to solve is fun, but code cracking is hard work.”

“Are you going to that awards dinner tomorrow night, Auntie May, or are you going to take Lizabeth’s advice and bail out?”

May made a face and opened her eyes. “I think I have to go. For one thing, I’m not supposed to know yet that I’m not this year’s top prize winner, so people would think it’s strange if I don’t show up, not to mention disrespectful to the memory of my publisher. For another, I’ll be curious to hear what the membership is saying about Lizzie’s demise. Nothing like an unexpected death to get a bunch of mystery writers het up. And finally, I want to know if news of Trague’s final manuscript is common knowledge yet. So, yes, I’m going to the awards dinner, even though I’d just as soon jump off a bridge.”

By noon on Saturday, I’d given myself a headache by taking one more crack at the blasted code in Lizabeth Mulgrew’s letter. I knew Armando wouldn’t call until Sunday morning, since this was the day of a highly competitive golf tournament among the Telecom reps, which traditionally was followed by an extended cocktail hour and dinner. Unable to postpone it any longer, I tackled the vacuuming, mopping and laundry, then made a serious run through the local Stop & Shop to replenish our food supplies. I decided to reward myself for my efforts, and take advantage of Armando’s absence, by buying a scrumptious piece of cod from City Fish for my dinner. Fish wasn’t on Armando’s preferred menu list, but I loved it.

After stowing the groceries, I put the fish in a hot toaster oven with chopped garlic, lemon juice and buttered bread crumbs and poured myself a glass of crisp pinot grigio to enjoy while I waited. Gracie, whose nose never failed her, appeared at my side, ready to accept whatever scraps I might offer her when the fish was cooked.

As I sipped and waited for the timer to go off, I had what I thought was a very good idea. My daughter Emma has one of the sharpest minds I’ve ever come across, and she’s a real puzzle nut. If anyone could crack this code, Emma could. I looked at my watch: Six o’clock, which meant it was three o’clock in Oregon. It was unlikely that she and Ryan, her current love interest, would be hanging around his apartment in the middle of a Saturday afternoon, but I decided it was worth a shot and went upstairs to my office. Five minutes later a copy of the list of song titles and code from Lizabeth’s letter was en route to Emma’s laptop via e-mail. With her phone, laptop, scanner and printer, she could carry on her career as a real estate paralegal seamlessly whether she was in Connecticut or Oregon.

Predictably, my phone rang just as I was taking the fish out of the toaster oven. “Sorry, Gracie, but I won’t be long, I promise.” I thumped the baking pan back into the oven, set it to keep warm, and grabbed my phone.

“Hi, Momma,” my daughter greeted me. “Fun and games, huh?”

I filled her in on our efforts at solving the puzzle, including printing out the lyrics to each song on Lizabeth’s list. “We’re not having any luck figuring it out here, so I thought I’d give you a crack at it. What do you think? Any inklings?”

Coming from anyone else, her derisive laughter would have been insulting. Even from my daughter, it was annoying, and I bristled a bit. “You guys are overcomplicating it, Mom. This is a piece of cake. I’ll tell you what. I’m going to ask you to do one thing to the list of songs. Then I’m going to hang up, wait ten minutes and call you back. If you haven’t solved the puzzle by then, you’re not my mother.”

I was seriously amazed. “You mean, you’ve already cracked the code? How is that possible?”

“Fresh eyes,” she assured me. “Works every time. The longer you stare at something, or the more you re-read it, the more complicated it gets. Your mind won’t take it in any more, just skips over the words. So go get your copy of the song list and number the titles from the top of the list to the bottom. Then take another look at the number pairings and see what happens. I’ll call you back in ten minutes. ‘Bye.” And she was gone.

I stared at the phone in my hand trying to decide whether to be aggrieved or intrigued. Having grown-up children with practical knowledge and opinions is a mixed bag at the best of times. After a few seconds, curiosity trumped pique, and I ran back upstairs to retrieve my copy of the letter. I spread it out on the kitchen table and did as Emma instructed, numbering the song titles from top to bottom. That gave me:

1.
My Secret Place

2.
My Heart Is an Open Book

3.
I Will Stand By You

4.
Six and Seven Books

5.
The Best Things in Life Are Free

6.
Best of My Love

7.
Hidden in My Heart

8.
Hometown Girl

9.
Paperback Writer

Okay, I thought, so let’s assume the first number in each pair of numbers refers to the number of the song, but what could the second number signify? I reviewed the list:

6,3 … 1,2 … 2,3 … 7,1 … 3,4 … 5,7 … 4,4 … 5,4 … 9,2 … 8,1

Almost immediately, I saw that the second number of each pairing was very low, nothing higher than 7. I looked at the list of song titles again and began underlining the title words that matched the second number in each pair. Now I had:

1.
My
Secret
Place

2.
My Heart
Is
an Open Book

3.
I Will Stand
By
You

4.
Six and Seven
Books

5.
The Best Things
in
Life Are
Free

6.
Best of
My
Love

7.
Hidden
in My Heart

8.
Hometown
Girl

9.
Paperback
Writer

Finally, I laid out the underlined words in the order of the pairings:
My secret is hidden by free books in writer hometown.
Eureka! Lizabeth had concealed the flash drive somehow in W.Z.B. Trague’s hometown library. I felt triumphant and stupid at the same time, and when Emma called back, I told her so. Then I thanked her. And then I called Margo, who promised to call May, who was en route to the Mysteries USA awards dinner, and pass along the good news.

On Sunday morning the three of us met for brunch at the Town Line Diner, later than usual in deference to May’s long evening at the Mysteries USA awards dinner. After our coffee had been poured and our orders given, Margo and I prodded May for details.

“It was a full house, all right,” she reported. “I can’t remember the last time I saw that many industry people in the same room. There were writers, of course, publishers and even some well-known agents. As a matter of fact, Wilhelm Trague’s agent, Renata Parsons, was there, which struck me as strange, since W.Z.B. is no longer with us. She must represent some other mystery writers or be looking for new ones. I wouldn’t have picked her out of the crowd, but Lizzie once told me she’s kind of a legend in the business. She’s nearly fifty, but she dresses like a teenager … a pink streak in her hair, short skirts, piercings.” She shuddered.

“It must have been a pretty grim affair for you, what with one thing and another,” I sympathized. “By the time the dinner got started, everyone must have been told about Lizabeth’s death, and as one of her authors, they must have been plaguing you for details.”

“Then you had to sit there during the awards presentation and give Jessica Price a big hand with a sportsmanlike smile on your face,” Margo added. “Poor Auntie May!”

Although the shadows beneath her eyes were a bit more pronounced than usual, May seemed none the worse for wear. In her shoes, I would have been haggard, but she was as pulled together and pleasant as ever.

“You know I don’t give a rat’s patootie about the silly award,” she reminded us. “That’s just something the conference sponsors dream up and pass around from author to author each year to get newbies to come and spend lots of money at their annual do. The award doesn’t mean a thing to the reading public.” She took a long pull at her coffee, and her face sobered. “Lizabeth’s death, though … that was another thing entirely. Between Jessica and some of Lizzie’s other authors weeping and wailing, plus the avid interest of people who never even met her in whatever sordid details they could glean, I had a lot of trouble keeping a straight face, I can tell you. It was like rubber-neckers passing a wreck on the highway, pure nosiness laced with a little venomous glee.” She rubbed her temples.

Margo and I looked at each other. “I get the nosiness part, but glee? Why would anyone be glad Lizabeth died?” I asked.

May snorted the Farnsworth snort. “Lizzie’s death wasn’t what was making them happy, except indirectly. It was delight that her authors were now without a publisher and had been dumped back into the general scramble with the rest of them. Jealousy plays a huge part in the creative world, if you can call the sort of amateurish drivel most conference attendees produce creativity. On the outside they’re kissing up to those who are reasonably successful and congratulating them on their achievements, but inside they’re positively seething with resentment that it’s not them getting the award or signing an agent contract or whatever.”

“That’s awful, Auntie May. Do you really believe that?”

There was a short pause as our omelets arrived and were efficiently distributed around the table. After refilling our coffees, the waitress withdrew, and May continued. “It wasn’t always that way. Years ago, before the field became totally glutted with mediocre talent and huge egos, becoming an author was a worthwhile aspiration. It required a special talent and a lot of hard work, and only the cream rose to the top, so to speak. Then advances in computer software made it possible for everyone with a PC and a checkbook to call themselves writers, and now the playing field is far too crowded. The flowers are in constant struggle with the weeds.”

She added milk to her coffee and stirred it thoughtfully. “The best analogy I can think of at the moment is too many rats in a cage – you know, that study they did some years back about what happens when too many critters are jammed together in a small space and have to compete for everything without having any room to get away from each other. Even when there’s plenty of food and water and females to go around, they’ll kill each other to cut down the competition for available resources. Metaphorically, it’s the same with writers these days. More and more aspiring authors are vying for the attention of fewer and fewer publishers, since it’s becoming impossible for the little independents to compete with the corporate giants. So whenever a writer colleague gets a publishing contract, the others publicly congratulate him or her but privately think, ‘It should be me! I’m just as good, probably better.’ It’s the green-eyed monster, pure and simple.” She shrugged. “Call it human nature.”

It wasn’t a pretty picture, but I had no doubt that May was correct in her assessment. She had dealt with hundreds of writers as a publisher over the last decade, and she had been a writer herself for even longer than that. With her sharp powers of observation and realistic view of people’s motivations, she had an almost uncanny ability to identify the dark side of her fellow human beings without losing her genuine warmth and sympathy for them.

“How did the award presentation go?” I changed the subject. “Were you able to look suitably disappointed when Jessica Price took first prize?”

May grinned wryly. “Speaking of venomous glee … no, I’m just kidding, sort of. Jessica made very nice acceptance speech, paying tribute to Lizzie and even acknowledging my own little effort, though clearly she deemed it inferior to her own.” She chuckled into her coffee cup. “It was all very civilized, but the panic behind Jessica’s confident words was almost palpable. Now that Lizzie is no longer with us, Jessica will be scrambling to find a new publisher, too, prize or no prize. I don’t believe her ego could withstand getting down in the mud with the rest of us riff raff and self-publishing.”

Margo looked surprised. “Is that what you plan to do now, Auntie May? I don’t know why, but I thought you would look for an agent and give the major commercial publishers a try.”

“Oh, no, dear. I’m too old for all that nonsense. I write because I enjoy it, and I’ve been lucky enough to attract a loyal following of readers who look forward to the adventures of Ariadne Merriwether. I believe they’ll follow wherever she goes and not give a hoot whether my titles are published by Simon & Schuster or CreateSpace. I mean, can you seriously picture your cantankerous auntie being told how to rewrite one of her titles by some twenty-year-old editor fresh out of Bryn Mawr?”