Swan Song (9 page)

I smiled. “You could very well be right. You’re a very perceptive young woman, you know that?

Between the bank and the Law Barn, we made our stop at the pond to feed the water fowl. Overnight, two huge swans had appeared to join the ducks, geese and inevitable seagulls on the partially thawed pond. Becky and I regarded them with awe. For many years, until a break in the earthen dam at one end of the pond had forced the Department of Environmental Protection to relocate the birds while repairs were made, a mated pair Armando and I had dubbed George and Laura had raised their families here. It had been a local custom to pause while driving by to check on the current season’s flotilla of fuzzy cygnets paddling furiously between their serene parents. We had all been disappointed for ourselves, but glad for the swans, when George and Laura adapted so well to their new location across town that they opted to return there the next spring instead of rejoining the other water fowl on our little pond.

Still, we did see them now and then. Each spring and autumn, as they came from and departed to their winter quarters on the Connecticut River, they would stop over for a day or two as if to say hello to old friends before continuing on their way. Occasionally, a few of the younger ones would do the same, and Emma and I had always assumed these two were among that group. They were enormous and showed no color traces of juvenile birds, so we doubted they’d been part of last summer’s hatch. We weren’t even sure they were a mated pair, since they were so similar in size and behavior.

“They’re like Disney swans,” Becky observed now as one of the giants plodded up to us, goofy and amiable, to accept our offering of cracked corn. “They’ve been turned into bums by all the handouts.”

“I know, and I feel a little guilty about that,” I agreed with her, “but I only feed the birds during the worst of the winter weather, and I never throw them bread or any of the other junk some people persist in putting down for them.” For years I’d conducted an unofficial campaign to let pond visitors know that such offerings were harmful to the birds they believed they were helping but were actually hurting. When I encountered such well-meaning bird feeders, I handed them small bags of cracked corn that included an explanation of why flour-based products couldn’t be digested by water fowl. For the most part, the information was appreciated, but I still met with resistance occasionally.

As if on cue, a man pulled up behind us in a red pickup truck and began tossing huge clumps of stale bread out onto the ice. I rolled my eyes at Becky and sighed as I went to retrieve one of my little give-away bags of corn to pass along to him. When I came up behind him, I noticed he was wearing hearing aids, so I raised my voice a bit.

“Excuse me. It’s kind of you to care about the birds, but I hope you’ll take a look at these materials when you have a minute. I’m afraid that bread you’re throwing to them isn’t good for them.” I extended the bag and waited for him to accept it, but he didn’t even turn around, just sneered over his shoulder.

“You already tried that with me a few weeks ago. It didn’t work.” He turned back to the pond and continued throwing chunks of stale bagels.

I couldn’t believe it. “You mean, you read the information, and you’re still throwing bread to them?”

“Just look at them. They love it!” he crowed, still not turning around. The starving birds were pecking at his offerings without any real enthusiasm, but they were hungry enough to investigate them.

“They’re desperate. They’ll try to eat almost anything, but that bread will make them sick!” I yelled at him, totally losing my temper. I stalked back to the car and got behind the wheel as Becky scrambled into the passenger seat.

“Apparently, my mother was right when she told me that sometimes there’s just no fix for stupid. What a jackass,” I fumed, but Becky got the last word. As we drove slowly away from the pond, she put down her window.

“Jerk!” she hollered.

“You said it, sister,” I agreed. It was nice to have an ally in Emma’s absence.

What with one thing and another, we were a little late getting to the office, where we discovered Margo, instead of May, fidgeting around the coffeemaker. She was fairly twitching with impatience and barely acknowledged our arrival. Her eyes kept going to the front door.

“May’s been making the coffee for so long, I almost don’t remember how to do it,” she muttered.

Sensitive to Margo’s mood, Becky wisely withdrew to check messages as I pulled my mug from the lowest shelf. “Whatever is bothering you, do you think caffeine is the answer?” I teased Margo. “And speaking of May, where is she? It’s not like her to be late. That must have been a hot date last night.”

Margo whirled to glare at me, and I realized too late that I’d said the wrong thing. “Whoa, girl, I was only kidding.” I reached across her for the coffee pot.

“Not funny,” Margo informed me unnecessarily. I was already well aware. “You can hardly blame me for bein’ concerned. In spite of her assurances, we really don’t know a thing about this Martin Schenk. She obviously has an adolescent crush on the man, which I have to say is so surprisin’. I mean, ‘steely blue eyes’? What was that about?”

She grabbed her mug and flounced into the lobby, where she plopped down on the sofa and crossed her elegant legs. One foot waggled back and forth, and she stared at the front door. From where she stood by the reception desk, Becky threw me a “What’s up?” look. I shrugged and shook my head, and she disappeared into the coffee room.

At that moment May pushed through the big front door and let it bang shut behind her. “Good morning, you sweet young things. Sorry to be late, but I see you were able to fend for yourselves. Did you leave any coffee for me?”

Without waiting for an answer, she deposited her bulging briefcase at the foot of the stairs leading up to the Romantic Nights offices and headed for the coffee room, narrowly avoiding a collision with Becky.

“And how are you this beautiful morning?” she greeted the startled girl. “Is Duane upstairs? I need to consult with him.”

“He must be up there already. I was just about to check in with him,” Becky told her. “Should I leave your messages with him and tell him you’ll be up in a few minutes?”

“That sounds like a plan,” May agreed. Becky ran upstairs, and May came to join Margo where she fairly sagged with relief on the sofa. “What’s the matter, mom? Did I miss curfew?” she teased her niece. “Don’t fret. Here I am, safe and sound.”

“Safe, maybe. Sound, I’m not so sure about,” Margo grumped. May and I exchanged grins.

“I believe what Margo meant to say was she hopes you and Martin had a pleasant evening,” I told her and kicked Margo’s foot lightly with my own. “Did you?”

“We had a fine time,” she beamed, “so fine, in fact, that we’re going to do it again tomorrow evening. Martin has the day off because he worked so many extra hours during the Mysteries USA convention.”

“Going back down to Essex?” I inquired idly.

“Not unless it turns out to be W.Z.B. Trague’s hometown. That’s what I need to find out from Duane. He’s researching Trague for me and should be able to tell me where he lived. Wherever that is, that’s where Martin and I will be headed—first to the library and then to lunch or dinner, depending on how far away it is.”

We all jumped a little as Becky and Duane clattered down the narrow stairs from the upper level.

“If these two ponies are going to be with us much longer, we’re going to have to carpet the stairs or institute a no-shoes-in-the-office policy,” May mused. “That racket all day long must drive Isabelle crazy, but she’s too polite to say anything. So what have you got for me?” she demanded of Duane.

Despite his boisterous entrance, Duane’s expression was subdued, as was Becky’s. Undoubtedly, he had already shared with her what he was about to say to us. She poked his shoulder.

“Um, not much,” he finally got out, looking as if he wished the floor would open up and swallow him.

We exchanged puzzled looks.

“Were you able to find out where Trague lived?” I prompted.

“Not really,” he mumbled miserably. “In fact, not at all.” He blew out an exasperated sigh. “I swear, it’s as if he never really existed. You’re sure this guy was a well-known author? I mean, his books are all listed on Amazon and Goodreads and eBay and all the other sites you’d expect, but his author bio pages are total smoke. Everything is said in generalities, no specifics. You know, ‘A New England author best known for his intricate thrillers,’ and ‘educated in Europe’ and ‘travels extensively, although anonymously.’ That kind of stuff. He’s so slippery, I just can’t get hold of him, and believe me, I’ve tried.”

Margo’s smile was uncertain. “You’re kiddin’ us, right? A famous author can’t live in a vacuum, can he, May? He has to pay bills, buy groceries …” Her voice trailed off.

Becky jumped in to defend her friend. “It would take a private detective to find out things like that. Duane doesn’t have any way to access that kind of information. All he could get to was stuff that’s open to the public.”

Duane threw her a grateful look and straightened his shoulders. “The thing is, Trague died two months ago. He never had a website or a Facebook page, so I couldn’t use those as sources. He didn’t have a wife or kids, you told me, and he never made public appearances, so there aren’t any old announcements or news stories about those. He didn’t teach or even guest lecture, so there are no university bios.” He shrugged. “That pretty much left obituaries as my only source of information.”

The frown that had been gathering on May’s face as Duane made his report lifted. “There must have been a bunch of those, though. The man was a legend in the mystery field. What did they say about where his funeral was held or where he’s buried? How about who survived him?” She sat forward eagerly.

If possible, Duane looked even unhappier. He glanced at Becky for support, and she nodded.

“Yeah, well, that’s where things get even weirder. There are no obits. In fact, all I could find was one reference on the Mystery Writers of America website.” He pulled a print-out from the pocket of his jeans and passed it to May. She read it aloud.

“‘We note with sadness the passing of Wilhelm Z.B. Trague, one of the mystery genre’s great lights, on December 17
th
of apparently natural causes, according to his former literary representative, Renata Parsons. Reclusive by nature, Trague was not a member of MWA, preferring to be known entirely through his writing, which has inspired a generation of aspiring authors. Among his many bestselling works were …’ and here it just catalogs some of his best-known titles.” She scanned the rest of the print-out. “There’s no reference to a funeral or memorial service, and the place of interment isn’t mentioned either. The last sentence merely says, ‘Memorial donations may be made to the W.Z.B. Trague Memorial Scholarship Fund via check to his attorney, Robert Henley.”

Margo and I had the same thought simultaneously. “Okay, then, we’ll contact the attorney and say we’d like to arrange a fundraising event for the scholarship fund at Trague’s hometown library, if he’ll be good enough to tell us where that is. Is there an address there so we can look him up on the Internet?” I asked.

“Or we’ll call Renata Parsons, since her name is right there in the notice,” Margo suggested. “I could do it, claimin’ to be an old school friend or something, if it would be awkward for you, Auntie May.”

Her aunt didn’t appear to hear us. She continued to gaze at the print-out, her lips moving as she followed the words with one finger. “Attorney Robert Henley,” she murmured to herself. “Where have I seen that name before?”

Duane and Becky made the connection more quickly than the rest of us. They both broke into wide smiles, and Becky made an after-you gesture to Duane.

“That name is in Lizabeth Mulgrew’s letter to you,” he announced, obviously relieved to be able to contribute something helpful.

“Henley was Ms. Mulgrew’s lawyer,” Becky clarified.

May’s eyebrows climbed her forehead in amazement. “Thank heaven for young synapses,” she applauded. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to make a phone call.” She got to her feet and made for her briefcase and the stairs.

I couldn’t contain my curiosity. “Who will you call first, Henley or Parsons?”

“Neither,” she threw over her shoulder, “at least, not yet. Becky’s comment about needing a private detective set me to thinking. Why hire one when I’ve got a date with an experienced detective tomorrow? Who knows what he can dig up between now and then. I’m calling Martin.”

Margo and I retreated to the Mack Realty offices to see what other surprises the day might hold. In addition to the fistful of messages Becky had retrieved from the general mailbox on the office answering machine, we knew there would be more in our private mailboxes. This was especially true following an open house weekend, of which we would have many, many more as we moved into spring.

As we entered our sunny little office at the rear of the building, I enjoyed its comfortable ambience, as I always did. Margo plopped down on our small sofa and parked her coffee mug on the little table beside it. Other furniture included a large desk, which held the laptop computer belonging to whichever of us was sitting there at the time, two visitors’ chairs, and a wall of three-drawer file cabinets holding files in progress for the current year. The sunshine spilling through our rear windows brightened the colors of the Amish quilt hanging on the remaining wall. When Strutter’s garden came into bloom, she would contribute a variety of blooms to the pewter vase that rested on one corner of the desk. When May had first seen the office a year or so ago, she had pronounced it “cheerful but not too girlie,” and I thought that was just about right.

Without Strutter to share the load for a few more days yet, Margo and I struggled to keep up with the paperwork, which in real estate is voluminous and endless. Back in the days when my paralegal daughter Emma and her real estate attorney boss had occupied the second story of the Law Barn, the river of documents had been far more manageable. Even when Emma and Jimmy had moved into new offices across the Connecticut River in Glastonbury, things had gone smoothly, thanks to scanners and e-mail; but with her visiting her man friend in Oregon, we were having a time juggling files among the freelance paralegals to whom Emma had referred us.