Hastily, she scraped the rest of the dumped papers into a pile, which she stacked at one end of the sofa. “I promise to clear that up this afternoon. I shouldn’t be gone too long, but I have a possible new listing to check out on Garden Street. See you when I can.” She grabbed her purse, gave her make-up a quick once-over in the little mirror we kept hanging by the stairs and disappeared up the half-flight to the lobby.
Returning phone calls kept me busy for the rest of the morning. Around one o’clock, my hunger pangs drove me upstairs to microwave a cup of soup. I bumped into Isabelle, who was doing the same.
“How are you doing?” I greeted her. “We hardly ever see you down here anymore. The romance publishing business must be keeping you pretty busy.”
“It does that,” she agreed, “but that’s what I’ve always wanted, a job that challenges me and keeps me on my toes.” She sipped her soup, and I watched her smile fade.
The microwave beeped, and I retrieved my lunch. “But?” I prompted and led the way to the empty lobby seating area. Duane and Becky were probably out to lunch themselves.
“But the rewards are becoming fewer and fewer, I’m afraid. Between demanding retailers, who want fifty percent discounts, free shipping and full return privileges, plus wholesalers who insist on even deeper discounts, pay us three or four months in arrears and allow their retailers to return books for full refunds for a ridiculous eighteen months, a title has to sell almost a thousand copies before we can recover our design and production costs, and hardly any of them do.” Her mouth twisted. “And of course, the whiny, ungrateful authors blame us for that. Most of them should get down on their knees and thank us for turning their unprofessional manuscripts into publishable books, but instead, they’re furious that we messed with their deathless prose.” Her free hand massaged one temple.
“Gosh, Isabelle, it sure sounds like fun.” I grimaced in sympathy as she gave a little bark of laughter.
“The real irony is they honestly believe we’re making a ton of money off their work. After all, they’re supplying the product at no cost, right? Ha! By the time we pay for cover design, website maintenance, ISBNs, barcodes, print file set-up and document formatting to accommodate half a dozen different e-book distributors, it’s a miracle we have enough money to pay royalties and business taxes, let alone ourselves. Between you and me, I paid our cover designer more than I made myself last quarter.”
I was genuinely shocked, and I’m sure my face showed it. I struggled to find something positive, or at least hopeful, to say.
“Are there any potential thousand-sellers on your spring list?” I finally managed, but Isabelle didn’t even have to think about that one.
“No. In fact, the only two titles that may—and I emphasize may—earn back their initial direct production costs were written by our church ladies, two old gals who sell a few hundred copies of their historical bodice rippers to their respective church memberships. It gives them the status of minor celebrities on Sunday mornings.” She chuckled and swigged her cooling soup.
It was gallows humor, at best. “If things are that bleak, why would you want to take the helm of Romantic Nights going forward?”
“To be perfectly honest, and I know you’ll be discreet because I haven’t given May my final answer yet, I don’t want to take over the business. I don’t think anyone should take it over; it should be shut down. I’m trying to work May around to seeing the truth for herself, but it’s hard for her. Romantic Nights is her baby. She spent years getting it on its feet, only to have the self-publishing facilitators create a wildly overcrowded market in which good, fairly priced books languish and cheap, badly written potboilers sell like crazy. Frankly, even if we weren’t on the verge of losing our shirts, I wouldn’t have the heart to participate in the craziness any longer. There’s something very wrong when nearly a thousand new titles are being released every single day. There aren’t that many competent writers in the universe. Just like the housing market a few years back, this bubble has got to burst before reason can prevail.”
I understood all too well the truth of what Isabelle was saying. My partners and I had been forced to suspend Mack Realty for nearly two years during the worst of the real estate crash, but I hated to think of May having to close down Romantic Nights. Margo had told me how hard losing her husband had hit May and what a godsend starting her independent publishing company had been. Knowing what she had already endured, it seemed particularly unfair for her to have to let the company go now. I had a thought.
“What about the new Trague manuscript? If it’s as good as his others, won’t it get the cash flow moving in the right direction?”
Isabelle smiled at my hopeful words. “If we can find it, and if it’s any good, and if Lizabeth’s letter to May stating her wish to leave it to her holds up legally, it would certainly keep us afloat for a while, maybe longer, but why? So we can release a few dozen more mediocre books and continue to add to the glutted marketplace? No, far better that May use that money to pay off her mortgage and put some fun into her life. I know how wonderful it can be to benefit from an unexpected windfall, and nobody deserves it more than May.”
We both smiled, remembering the bequest that had changed Isabelle’s life a couple of years ago and brought her and May together. It had seemed serendipitous at the time, but life has a way of turning on a dime.
“What will you do, then?” I asked quietly. “Have you had a chance to make any plans for your own future?”
Isabelle’s response was reassuringly upbeat. “Nothing definite yet, but I’ve had an idea or two. I’m letting them marinate.” She upended her mug and tapped the last of the noodles into her mouth. “I know this stuff has way too much sodium, but these instant soup cups are so tasty, I can’t resist them. Anyway, time for me to go back upstairs and try to keep our sinking ship above water for a little longer.” She got to her feet, and I reluctantly did the same.
“Has May reached Martin yet?” I asked, taking Isabelle’s mug to rinse out with my own.
“Is that who she’s been trying to call all morning? I’ve had my face in the computer and wasn’t paying attention. I did hear her sounding very cross with someone just before I came downstairs. What’s going on?”
I filled her in briefly, and she headed for her office, looking curious.
Halfway down the stairs to Mack Realty, I heard our phone ringing and hustled to answer it. I was soon engulfed in the endless calls and e-mails that consumed the day in most realty offices. I did my best to keep up and prayed that Wednesday would get here quickly, and Strutter would return to the office. I was dimly aware that Duane and Becky had returned from lunch. Margo whisked in and out, barely pausing to touch up her lipstick in our little wall mirror—a sure sign that she was flat out.
By four-thirty I was hoarse and exhausted and very glad to see May carrying two mugs of fresh coffee carefully down our stairs. I gratefully accepted one, and she took hers over to the little sofa.
“Are things as busy upstairs as they are down here?” I asked her between restorative sips.
“I guess so, but the phone doesn’t ring so much. It’s mostly e-mails, and Isabelle copes with most of them. I just shooed her home to Vista View.”
Vista View was a planned retirement community across town for which we were the contracted sales representatives. Strutter, Margo and I took turns staffing the sales desk in the administration building’s big lobby. It wasn’t exciting work, but it surely helped us pay our bills during the slow winter months. It was where all of us had met Isabelle, who lived there now following a brief stint as the organization’s business manager.
“Vista View.” I wrinkled my nose. “Doesn’t the redundancy of that name totally bug you? They may as well have named it View View.”
“I’ll bet they have shrimp scampi on their dinner menu every night,” May deadpanned, and I grinned. This was turning into one of our favorite pastimes: the English Major Gripe Session. “I have a new pet peeve,�
�� she announced.
“Oh, goody, what is it?”
“There’s a reality show I like to watch called ‘Fixer Uppers.’ This husband and wife in Texas renovate old, rundown properties in good neighborhoods and sell them. They do a heck of a job on them, too. They have a forty-acre property of their own, and they call it Magnolia Farms. In fact, they recently put up a big entrance sign, so that name is right in my face at the beginning of each episode.”
I thought for a few seconds. “Farms?”
“Exactly. It’s just one farm, for crying out loud, so what’s with the pluralization?”
“I love it,” I agreed with her. “Let’s leave a testy message on their website. By the way, I have a new one, too. There’s a new breakfast place on Route 9. We passed it last weekend, and I almost gagged. It’s called The Koffee Kupboard, spelled with initial K’s instead of C’s.”
May groaned. “A cute-spell! I absolutely hate those.”
“Me, too. What did Martin have to say about the attorney? Do you have an appointment to see him tomorrow? That’s quite a lead, him being mentioned in both Lizabeth Mulgrew’s letter and Trague’s memorial notice. He should be able to tell you something about Trague’s hometown.”
May drummed the table beside her with her fingers and stared past me out our big window. “Oddly enough, I haven’t been able to reach Martin. I called his cell phone and left a message, but I haven’t heard back yet.”
“Maybe he turned off his phone during a meeting at the Hilton and forgot to turn it back on. Why don’t you give him a shout at his office? You still have his business card, right?”
“I do, and I did call that number. That’s part of what’s so perplexing.” She looked uncomfortable. “You know how big companies usually have one main number, which is answered by a person or goes to a general voice mailbox, then everyone else who works there has the same three-number prefix and a four-number extension? Well, the Hilton is set up like that. Their main number is 555-6000, and Martin’s direct dial number is 555-6047. That’s what it says on his business card, but when I called his direct line, it just rang and rang. It wasn’t answered, and it didn’t go to voice mail.”
“That’s odd. Do you think it’s out of service?”
“Funny you should say that,” May commented sourly. “I thought that might be the case, so I called the main number to try to leave a message. Turns out I couldn’t do that either.”
I was almost afraid to ask. “Um, why not?”
She met my eyes over the rim of her coffee mug and took a long sip. Finally, she returned the mug to the side table and sat forward, clasping her hands together in her lap. “When the switchboard operator answered, I explained what had happened with Martin’s direct line. She put me on hold for a few seconds. When she came back on the line, she said I must have been misinformed. That number was assigned to an office that was currently unoccupied. Then she asked me who I was trying to reach.” She swallowed hard. “She didn’t know who Martin Schenk was. She had never heard of him. The head of security at the Hartford Hilton is someone else altogether. Kate, I have an awful feeling I have been a complete jackass.”
Chapter Nine
When Margo came down the stairs shortly after five o’clock, she took one look at May and me and asked, “What’s wrong?”
May summarized the phone fiasco with the Hilton and slumped against the back of the sofa, shame and fury comingling on her face. “Are Duane and Becky still in the office?” she asked anxiously. “I can’t bear having those children know what an old fool I’ve been.”
“They’re long gone, and the front door is locked,” Margo assured her. She marched behind the desk and yanked open the bottom left drawer, which is where we keep the Jim Beam. Okay, and a fifth of vodka for Strutter. She pulled out the bourbon and three plastic cups from the stash and distributed three substantial slugs before joining May on the sofa.
I’d been too shocked by May’s story to say anything right away, but a clarifying surge of anger loosened my tongue. “If you’ve been a fool, you’re no worse than the rest of us, May, and it won’t do Duane and Becky any harm to get a reality lesson. Schenk apparently had us all hoodwinked. Every one of us, including Isabelle, sat in the lobby last Friday and lapped up his story.”
“He had business cards,” Margo protested.
“Which he could have gotten printed at Staples or Office Depot in about ten minutes,” May scoffed. “He was just so plausible in the role he’d invented for himself. He described Lizabeth’s room in such detail, true or not, and he was so gentlemanly about getting her letter to me personally.” She covered her eyes with one hand. “I trusted him completely on the strength of five minutes’ acquaintance. I actually gave him a copy of the letter, just handed over the whole thing.”
“Don’t give that a second thought,” Margo huffed. “Remember, he came in here with that letter. I’m sure he not only read the whole thing ahead of time but probably made himself a few photocopies …”
“… while he was having his business cards printed,” I finished up. “That’s why he cracked Lizabeth’s code so much faster than we did. He had a head start.”
“But how did he even get the letter if he’s not who he says he is?” May wailed. “How did he get into Lizabeth’s room? Or if it was someone else, who got in there, discovered her dead, found the letter and gave it to him? And why? None of this makes any sense. I’m completely lost.”
“No more so than the rest of us,” I muttered. I got to my feet, too angry to keep still, and began pacing the floor in front of the window. “Let’s go back to what we know is true. Lord knows, it isn’t much.”
We were quiet for a few seconds as we thought about that. I continued to pace.
“I have to go all the way back to Thursday’s meet-and-greet at the Hilton,” May said, “when we were listening to Lizzie’s rant on the fire stairs. Then we walked her to her room and said goodnight. We all saw her open the door and go in. After that, everything I thought I knew for a fact was really told to me by someone else, mostly Martin Schenk, if that’s even his real name.”
We let that possibility sink in, and then Margo chimed in. “We don’t even know how Lizabeth died or exactly when. All we know is what Schenk told us about how she seemed to be laid out ceremonially and how it looked as if her suitcase had been searched. We don’t that any of his story is true, but if it is, how did Schenk find out about it?” She suddenly looked stricken and grabbed May’s arm. “Oh, my god, do we even know for sure that Lizabeth died?”
May laid a calming hand over Margo’s. “That much I do know is true. I’ve seen several obituaries on line, official ones published in newspapers. Those have to come from approved sources such as funeral homes. They said she ‘died suddenly,’ which could mean almost anything, and they listed Lizzie’s survivors and requested donations to the American Heart Association, which fits with her telling me in her letter that she’d received a bad diagnosis. They weren’t at all like that vague announcement in the association newsletter about Trague. Which brings us back to how did Martin know all those details about how Lizzie died and what her room looked like? How did he get that letter?” She looked from Margo to me, her eyes pleading for answers.
I decided to state the obvious. “Either he was in her room himself, or he had an accomplice who was.”
“Or he made all those details up, too, to make himself sound more plausible as chief of security,” Margo amended. “Still, even if he invented the whole scenario, he had to get the letter somehow. He had it in his pocket, and he brought it to May.” She paused as if uncertain how to ask her next question. “Auntie May, are you sure the letter is in Lizabeth Mulgrew’s handwriting?”
I was shocked at the possibility of a forgery, but May didn’t bat an eye. “Oh, yes. That much I am sure of. Lizzie and I exchanged many notes and cards over the years. She had a peculiar habit of crossing her T’s to the right side only, and her longhand slanted to the left, even though she w
as right-handed. It’s Lizzie’s writing.”
Margo and I subsided into our bourbon, somewhat reassured on that point.
“So we know Lizabeth Mulgrew wrote the letter, which clearly states that she wants May to have publishing rights to the as-yet-unpublished final manuscript of W.Z.B. Trague. We also know that at least two people, besides those of us at the Law Barn, know the letter exists: Schenk and May’s attorney,” I summed up.
“Schenk and an accomplice,” said Margo at the same time.
May looked startled. “Which is it? And what makes you think Lizzie’s lawyer knew about the letter?”
Her question gave me pause. “She said so right in it, didn’t she?” Now I wasn’t at all sure.
“No, she simply said her attorney in Lenox would take care of shutting down her business and so on while she did some traveling. She didn’t say he knew about Trague’s manuscript. She was writing the letter by hand in the wee hours of Friday morning, remember. She had no way of sending him a copy until the next day.” She stopped speaking abruptly, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Maybe she called him,” Margo suggested, giving May time to recover herself.
“At five o’clock in the morning? Doubtful,” I reminded her. “She was counting on May to find the manuscript and use Lizabeth’s original, handwritten letter to prove she had the rights to it.”
“It’s the only proof I have,” May said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, “and Martin had to know that, so why would he, and possibly an accomplice, give the letter to me when they had to know they had the only copy? Not only is it the sole clue to the manuscript’s whereabouts, it’s the only shred of evidence I could possibly produce after finding it to prove my right to publish it. Why wouldn’t they just solve the puzzle, find the flash drive and leave me out of the picture? I wouldn’t have known a thing about it.”
Swan Song Page 8
