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?”
We all laughed at that scenario.
“You’re right, that’s never going to happen. So I congratulated Jessica with as much warmth as I could muster and tried not to cast too many longing looks at the exit door while the rest of the speeches went on, which is when the evening got more interesting than I had dared hope.”
May smiled serenely before stuffing a huge bite of omelet into her mouth. The woman knows how to build suspense, I’ll give her that. Margo made, “Get on with it,” motions with her hands, but May merely held up one finger and kept on chewing.
After a long swallow of coffee, she deigned to continue. “Just before dessert was served, which is when everyone gets up to visit the restrooms or replenish their drinks, one of the waiters came up behind me at the head table and whispered that one of the hotel security people would like a word with me. It took a minute for me to figure out who he meant, and then I realized it had to be Martin.”
“Martin?” Margo looked blank, as I’m sure I did.
“Martin Schenk, the lovely man who brought me Lizzie’s letter Friday afternoon.”
I didn’t know which was more surprising, that May remembered the man’s first name or that she had just called him a lovely man. I kept my mouth busy with another bite of my breakfast and awaited developments.
“So I excused myself from the table and followed the waiter out into the lobby area, where Martin was, in fact, waiting for me. I almost didn’t recognize him in a tie and dinner jacket, but those steely blue eyes with the crinkles around them jogged my memory. I must say, he cleans up very nicely.” She smiled a little to herself and fell silent.
Margo and I exchanged raised eyebrows. “Did you tell him the good news about our cracking the code?” I prompted.
May laughed. “I did, but I needn’t have bothered. He had already beaten us to it. That’s what he called me out of the dinner to tell me. Well, that was part of the reason.” Here she colored slightly and smiled that funny smile to herself again.
“Wow,” said Margo, “I’m amazed that he had time to spend on solving our little puzzle what with the convention going on and all, but I’m impressed with his speed. He must have some experience at this sort of thing.”
May nodded. “Yes, he does, something about his time in police work. In any event, locating a new, unpublished manuscript written by a deceased, pre-eminent mystery author is hardly an insignificant event. In today’s world, it’s a very big deal.”
“Sorry, of course it is. It’s all happened so fast, it’s hard to get my head around the fact that your friend and publisher has de facto willed that amazing manuscript to you, and now we have some clue about where to find it,” Margo apologized. “So what happens now?”
“That’s the million dollar question,” May agreed.
“A million dollars?” I choked.
“Oh, easily, Kate. What with domestic and foreign rights, hardcover and ebook and audio rights, movie rights, book club sales … I have no idea what this could be worth. Trague was a very popular mystery author, and a new title coming to light after his death could be really something. Imagine if a previously unpublished Agatha Christie suddenly turned up. But the first thing we have to do is locate the manuscript and find out if it’s any good. After all, Wilhelm might have been totally gaga by the time he wrote this one. Martin and I intend to map out our next steps at dinner this evening.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin and twinkled at us.
Margo’s mouth fell open. “You’re going out to dinner? With a man? Tonight?”
May’s expression was amused. “Why, yes, dear. That’s the general idea.”
I couldn’t keep a big grin from spreading across my face. Margo finally managed to regain control of her lower jaw and rearranged her features. “I’m just so surprised is all,” she finally sputtered. I’ve never seen you show the slightest interest in anyone since Uncle Doug
died, and now on ten minutes’ acquaintance under some pretty bizarre circumstances, I might add, you’re goin’ out on the town with a hotel security cop. What do you really know about this man, Auntie May?”
“Margo,” I protested quietly, “I’m sure May knows what she’s doing. Get a grip.”
“Yes, dear, do get hold of yourself,” May chided, but her eyes as she teased her niece were fond. “Martin is hardly a serial killer candidate, you know. He’s got a very responsible position with business cards and everything. His fingernails are clean, and he stands up straight, and then there are those eyes.” She rolled hers and pretended to swoon a little. “I have a feeling even Douglas would agree that I’ve been out of circulation quite long enough. Why shouldn’t I have a pleasant dinner with an interesting man, especially one who has the skills and experience to maybe help me locate a valuable manuscript?”
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” I piped up as Margo continued to gape at her aunt. “I’m a firm believer in dating younger men, as you know.” I tried to elicit a smile from my friend with this reference to the five-year age difference between Armando and me, but Margo wasn’t biting.
“Where are you having dinner, May?”
“The Mysteries USA convention is over at noon, so Martin has the rest of the day off. He’ll pick me up late afternoon, and we’ll drive down to the Griswold Inn in Essex. It should be very cozy by the fireplace, and we’ll have plenty to talk about, since by then I’m sure Duane will have done enough computer research on Trague to have come up with his hometown.”
“Oh, good,” I approved. “Poor Duane must have been devastated when Emma cracked the song code so easily. This will give him a chance to save face. He’s seemed a little down lately.”
May nodded but looked a bit worried. “I hope so, but W.Z.B. has always been something of an enigma in the industry. Lots of writers prefer to remain private, but Trague was a genuine recluse. He never made appearances. He didn’t have a website or a Facebook page. I don’t recall ever seeing a photograph of him, now that I think about it.”
“Why don’t we just ask his agent? You said she was at the dinner last night. Maybe she’s still in town or even at the hotel.”
May frowned and shook her head. “That would really start her wondering what was up, don’t you think? What possible reason could I have for wanting to know? And even if she wasn’t suspicious, despite her bizarre appearance, she’s famous for being tight-lipped. I doubt she would tell me. In fact, she’s probably contractually bound not to give Trague’s secrets away, if that’s the way he wanted it.”
“Even though he’s dead?” I asked.
She nodded. “Even though. I did see her talking with Jessica Price a little later in the evening, so maybe those two will be teaming up now that Jessica has such a prestigious award under her belt.” Her voice dripped sarcasm.
Margo signaled for the check. “I’ve got another open house this afternoon, and it’s a tough sell. It’s that duplex on Prospect. The building has a lot of nice features, but it’s simply stuffed with junk. The owners are pack rats. I begged them to bring in dumpsters and clear the place out so prospects could see the real potential of the place, but they hardly made a dent. I don’t hold out much hope for a good price.” She sighed. “I will never understand people’s emotional attachment to their stuff.”
I had to agree. I’m fairly minimalist, and when Armando and I had moved in together, I’d been shocked by the avalanche of clothes, books, and tchotchkes rolling into my house from the movers’ van. The man had saved every bill, piece of junk mail and the envelopes they came in for the previous ten years, then packed them in cartons and paid a mover to transport them to my cellar. It had taken me years of winnowing and shredding to achieve order again.
May chuckled as we all collected our purses. “Downsizing is the only way to go. It forces you back to the basics. When I moved up here to my little New England Cape Cod house from that big barn Doug and I owned in Atlanta, I must have turned three-quarters of my things over to Goodwill. Best thing I ever did.”
On that note, we made our way to the cashier and out of the diner. As I struggled into my heavy parka, I caught a glimpse of a not-so-young-woman with a pink streak in her hair vanishing into the women’s room. I pointed, pulling on May’s sleeve.
“What?” she said, preoccupied with her thoughts, presumably about her plans for the evening.”
“Oh, nothing. I thought I recognized someone, but I must have been mistaken. Have a lovely afternoon, Margo. See you both tomorrow. Remember, May, we’ll want all the details.”
Chapter Seven
Every Monday, on the way to work, I deposited the previous week’s checks in Mack Realty’s account at TD Bank on the corner of Old Main Street and the Silas Deane Highway. When the weather was inclement (i.e., whenever I didn’t feel like leaving the comfort of my nice, warm car), I preferred to use the drive-up teller. Unfortunately, I almost invariably wound up in line behind someone who seemed to be closing a mortgage or executing some equally complicated transaction in defiance of the posted three-minute rule.
Today was no exception, but at least I had company. Becky was in the passenger seat, having volunteered to help me feed the feathered ones at the pond after our stop at the bank. The cold spell had abated, but the pond’s stubborn layer of ice had not yet receded, forcing most of the ducks and geese across the street into the marsh, where the water remained open.
Becky was warming to the task of spreading cracked corn for the hungry birds, obviously sympathetic to both their hunger and their frustration at having an impenetrable lid on their preferred buffet. Most of them accepted winter conditions philosophically and waddled into the marsh with resignation, but Becky had been amused a couple of days ago to see half a dozen stubborn geese standing, flatfooted, on the thin ice and peering into the pond’s depths.
“Why do they do that when we’re right there, pouring out breakfast?” she asked now as we waited in line behind a beige minivan the size of a small house. A harassed brunette was behind the wheel, and two small boys scuffled in the back seat. The sounds of their taunts and their mother’s ineffectual attempts to quiet them drifted through my lowered window.
“They would really rather eat the natural things that are best for them, pond plants and small crustaceans and so on, which is why most of them move to open water in the winter. The corn is strictly a desperation measure to avoid starvation. Unfortunately, they’ll also swallow the stale bread and other indigestible garbage people throw to them. I guess the geese on the ice are optimists, hoping that if they stand there long enough, the ice will disappear like a bad dream.”
“They have a point, if they can stand there for another couple of weeks,” Becky pointed out in their defense. “I mean, it always melts eventually, right?”
“I wish I had their patience,” I sighed. The van in front of us remained solidly immobile as the driver continued her interminable transaction. “Can you believe this woman? She has no qualms about holding us up, and she even lets their pet rabbit, or is it a guinea pig, loose in the car.”
I pointed to where the van tailgate met the rear bumper. Rodent whiskers and the hint of a pink nose could be seen twitching along the crack at the rear of the cargo area. Becky and I exchanged thoughtful looks.
“It’s too small to be one of those,” she said, “but I guess it could be a hamster.”
“Or not,” I said and smiled. “Do you think we should go up there and tell her she has a field mouse in her van? Maybe that would get her to move.”
“You’re bad,” said Becky and giggled. “All hell would break loose.”
I enjoyed the prospect as I watched the mouse whiskers skittering along the crack.
“I could just open the tailgate and let it out, if it isn’t locked,” Becky offered, but I shook my head.
“That mouse probably crept into the van from the family’s garage, or maybe they have a woodpile for a stove or fireplace. From the
look of those two little stinkers throwing things at each other in the back seat, I wouldn’t be surprised if the mouse was attracted to the van by food crumbs.”
“But how could she get in without anyone noticing?”
I laughed. “You wouldn’t believe the tiny places mice can squeeze through. They seem to be boneless. The thing is, unless I miss my guess, this one has a nestful of babies she’s anxious to return to, probably in that garage or woodpile. The kindest thing we can do for her is let her stay where she is until the van gets back to where it started.”
Becky continued to fret. “What if the woman is just dropping the kids at school and then going to an office downtown all day?”
I peered at the van’s driver and shook my head. “Nope. Elementary school started already. The boys look too young anyway, plus mom is wearing a hoodie sweatshirt, which isn’t office attire even at the Law Barn.” I decided a change of subject was in order. “So what do you and Duane think about the solution to Lizabeth Mulgrew’s coded message?”
That brought a grin to Becky’s face. “I’ve always thought Emma is one of the smartest people I’ll ever know, so I’m not even surprised at her quick solution, but I thought Duane was going to cry. He’d spent hours on line, looking up those song lyrics and moving the words around in different configurations. He was so sure he would be the first one to crack the code, but then, men do tend to overcomplicate things.”
I looked at her in surprise. “Such insight from one so young. Ah, finally,” I added as the van in front of us slowly pulled away. “Hand me the deposit bag, will you?”
Swan Song Page 6
