Swan Song

by Judith K Ivie

  I covered my face with my hands and groaned. “Here we go again around in circles. Maybe this, and maybe that. Let’s try to stick to what we know. Now what did you want to tell us, May? You came down here to tell us about a new lead, and then we went off in all directions. What’s up?”

  May forced her attention back to the subject at hand and consulted the piece of paper she was holding. “I talked to a delightful old gal at an independent mystery publishing company in Vermont, one Violet Sandpiper. I suspect Violet was having a slow day, because once I got her talking, she just kept going. To cut to the chase, she and Lizzie used to meet up at a convention or two every year, keep each other company at the functions and so on. Over the years, they got to know each other pretty well, the way you do at these things. Anyway, Violet was always envious that Lizzie had the rights to W.Z.B. Trague’s backlist, and she asked Lizzie about Trague from time to time … whether anything new had been turned over to the backlist lately, how sales were going, that sort of thing. Lizzie was generally pretty tight-lipped on the subject of Trague, Violet said, but this one time a few years back, she commented that sales were always pretty brisk for his titles in New England, especially in Massachusetts, and she supposed that was because he was from the area. Lizzie specifically mentioned a large order coming in from a bookstore in Hubbard, which is very near Lowell, Massachusetts.”

  May paused to take a gulp from the mug of tea Margo handed her.

  “Okay,” Strutter said, “but how does an order from a bookstore in Hubbard get you any closer to knowing where he lived? Massachusetts is a big state.”

  Isabelle picked up the story. “Because after May finished talking with Violet, we called the bookstore owner in Hubbard. She actually remembered placing that order, because she’d had to return a number of those books a few months later. She couldn’t understand why they weren’t selling until she found out that the Hubbard Library routinely stocked plenty of copies of Trague’s titles for their local patrons. New Englanders have a reputation for thriftiness for a good reason, you know. Why buy when you can borrow?” she smiled.

  “What with one thing and another, we have very good reason to suspect that W.Z.B. Trague’s hometown was Hubbard, Massachusetts,” May finished up. “I think we should all go up there tomorrow and check it out, take a road trip. What do you say, are you in?”

  Margo, Strutter and I consulted each other silently. “I’m supposed to staff the sales desk at Vista View tomorrow, but with the storm coming and all, they probably wouldn’t mind my slacking off,” I said. “Count me in.”

  Strutter looked doubtful. “I’d love to help, but with Becky and Duane working at the Hilton, somebody has to stick around here and answer the phones. Besides, Olivia’s school may get canceled because of the storm. Has anybody heard a forecast recently?”

  Margo was already consulting the weather app on her smart phone. “NBC says the snow isn’t expected to start until mid-afternoon tomorrow, but that could change. Where is Hubbard anyway?”

  Isabelle chimed in. “It’s very near Ware, which isn’t far from Springfield. I figure it’s an hour’s drive, maybe a little more if there’s traffic. I’ll keep things from blowing up here. May, if you and Margo and Kate get on the road early, you can get through Springfield before the morning rush. You might have to wait a little for the library in Hubbard to open, but you can always stop for coffee or something. That way, you’ll have several hours to check out the library before the snow even gets started, and you can beat the afternoon traffic back to Hartford.”

  May, Margo and I grinned at each other. “This could be it!” May exulted.

  “With this information, we’re sure to beat Schenk and Parsons to the finish line, assuming they’re even in the race,” I agreed.

  “Road trip with Auntie May!” Margo exulted. “It’ll be like old times.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  On Thursday evening I cleared the decks by leaving a message for Vista View’s business manager to explain my absence the next day and having an extended telephone conversation with my husband, a South American until the age of twenty-nine, who viewed a precipitous drop in temperature and white stuff falling out of the sky as life-threatening.

  “Would it not be a good idea to close your offices early tomorrow and be home before the worst of the storm begins?” he suggested, fearing that something disastrous would befall me in the two-and-a-half miles of roads that lay between the Law Barn and The Birches. The truth was that I traveled those roads in worse weather at least a dozen times every winter, usually extending my trip to feed the waterfowl and the songbirds who counted on me. I sighed and tried to keep my patience.

  “We may do that,” I stalled, knowing full well we wouldn’t even be in Wethersfield, let alone the office, the following morning. “Isabelle Marchand will be keeping a close eye on the weather, and if it looks as if it’s going to be really bad, she’ll let us know. The good news is, the storm should be well over by the time you’re scheduled to fly on Sunday.” This time I crossed my fingers behind my back. New England storm fronts were extremely changeable, and at this point nobody could know for certain exactly when the storm would pass. “The forecasters say Florida won’t feel any effects at all, because the front will pass well north of there. So enjoy your big dinner on Saturday, and by the time you arrive at Bradley International, we’ll be all plowed out.”

  Slightly mollified, Armando bid me goodnight and went off to check his emails, while I filled Gracie’s dry food bowl before she shredded any more of our carpet in protest at the delay in her dinner. After my own dinner of soup and a sandwich, I took a glass of shiraz back to the living room, clicked on the gas fire log, and called Emma in Oregon. We brought each other up to date on news and gossip, including the latest developments in the Trague manuscript situation.

  “That sounds like a pretty good lead,” she agreed when I explained about the Hubbard bookstore order and the fact that most of it had been returned due to the library stocking multiple copies of Trague’s titles. “So W.Z.B. was a sort of minor celebrity there?”

  “More like a major celebrity with a big local following. You don’t become a national bestseller by selling only locally, and his reclusiveness enhanced his celebrity aura. We’ve looked all over the Internet and have yet to turn up a single radio or TV interview.”

  “Which, of course, made him all the more sought-after,” Emma said, “what Carrie Bradshaw called ‘the ever seductive withholding dance,’ on Sex and the City.”

  I laughed, remembering that line, delivered by Carrie about her on-again, off-again lover, Mr. Big. “I don’t think there’s a woman in America who doesn’t agree with that observation. So how are things going with your crush? Making plans to move to Oregon, are you?”

  My tone was teasing, but the truth was, my heart was doing flip-flops. I wanted nothing but the best for Emma, but as close as we’d become in recent years, it would be hard for me to adjust to a long-distance relationship with her. Still, that was the nature of raising children, wasn’t it? My son Joey had married and moved to Massachusetts. It was only logical to admit that Emma might also move to another state. I just wished she weren’t considering moving all the way across the country.

  As usual, her response was somewhat reassuring. “I like Oregon a lot, but Connecticut is my home. My mom is there, and as big a pain as you can be, I’m used to having you around. I like my job, and my apartment is just the way I want it, and I’ve had the same friends for nearly twenty years. I’m in no hurry to give up any of that.”

  “Long distance romances can be a lot of fun,” I agreed, acutely aware of serving my own interests, “sort of like being on a permanent honeymoon.”

  After wishing me luck on our quest of the following day, Emma had another thought. “By the way, what do the initials W, Z and B stand for in Trague’s name?”

  I thought about it.“The W stands for Wilhelm, if I remember correctly, but I have no idea what the B and Z represent. May
be it’s purely for effect. Why?”

  “Just curious,” she replied enigmatically. “Let me know how the road trip goes tomorrow.”

  As luck would have it, we had barely crossed the Wethersfield town line into Hartford on the I-91 access road when Margo had to step hard on her Volvo’s brake pedal to avoid piling into the rear bumper of a Passat. The traffic ahead was at a standstill as far as the eye could see, and we were now neatly trapped in a parking lot that used to be a highway.

  “Hope you all visited the little girls’ room before we started out, because it isn’t lookin’ good for a rest stop anytime soon,” Margo sighed. “Must be an accident somewhere up ahead.”

  We all craned our necks in an effort to see around the stopped vehicles to the point where the access road and I-91 merged into one six-lane stream of commuter traffic heading north. May leaned forward in the passenger seat, clearly dismayed, but “Oh, dear. This is not what we needed in order to stick to our timetable,” was all she said. I felt for her. After everything that had happened in the past week, she had finally managed to unearth a solid lead on the Trague manuscript, only to be thwarted by a traffic jam.

  “Probably some idiot had his eyes on his text messages instead of the road,” I carped from my perch in the back seat. “I see them all the time, but the police never seem to notice them. At least twice this week I’ve had to honk at the driver ahead of me to get a move on when the traffic light turned green because she was looking down at the device in her lap, thumbs working madly, instead of paying attention to her driving.”

  We all fell silent and gazed around at our frustrated fellow drivers. “Do you think there would be any traffic reports on the radio,” May asked, “or is that technology simply too hopelessly archaic for you young things?”

  Margo rolled her eyes at me in the rearview mirror and reached for the radio knob. “I admit it’s been a while since I’ve listened to anything on AM or FM radio, but I think I still have the hang of it. Any suggestions?”

  I drew a blank. “I’m sure you could find the Department of Transportation’s site on your smart phone,” I offered weakly.

  “Oh, you are, are you?” she scoffed. “When was the last time you used your cell phone to do anything but call AAA?” Margo knew all too well that I was not a device enthusiast and barely remembered to charge my non-smart phone’s battery once a week so it would work during a highway emergency. Like this one. I looked at May for help, but she just shook her head.

  “Sorry. I can just barely turn my phone on.”

  Margo had a thought. “Let’s call John at the P.D. Even if he’s not there, somebody will know what’s goin’ on this close to the station.”

  I volunteered for the job and spent several seconds activating my phone and fiddling with the swipe screen to unlock the thing so it was useable. “What’s the number?”

  Margo looked embarrassed. “Ummm, I don’t know. I’ve got everything on speed dial so I don’t have to remember the real numbers.”

  “Very efficient,” I sniped. “Now what do we do?”

  May, meantime, had been twirling the dials on Margo’s radio. “As I recall, most stations run news, weather and traffic several times an hour during the commuter rush. It’s still early. Let’s see what I can find.”

  To our delight and amazement, the voice of a news announcer soon boomed from the dashboard. “More news in ten as we wind down this Friday rush hour, but now to Mike Alan for a live traffic update on that I-91 delay.”

  “Wow, Auntie May, way to go!” Margo congratulated her as May and I high-fived over her seatback. Three adult women, all with cell phones, and it took an FM station to get us where we wanted to go. It figured.

  Within seconds, Mr. Alan had enlightened us with the news that a tractor-trailer rig had broken down just past the I-84 East entrance ramp and was solidly blocking the far right lane. Delays were expected to last well past 10:00 a.m. as backed-up commuters already extended south into Rocky Hill. Since my son Joey drove a big rig for a living, my sympathies were initially for the truck driver until I thought about the repercussions for our morning. I looked at my watch, which read 8:23 a.m.

  “We’ll never get to Hubbard before noon if we sit here half the morning,” I pointed out unnecessarily. “Can we find a way off this road?”

  Margo had already scoped out the possibilities and decided to take her lead from the hordes of drivers squeezing over to take the Brainard Road exit on the right. With admirable bravada, she flipped on her right turn signal and started squeezing with them, flashing her gorgeous smile to anyone who allowed her to merge in front of them. In only a couple of minutes, we were crawling down the exit ramp and preparing to reverse direction. Her GPS, which had been programmed to get us to Hubbard, squawked in protest. “Reset … reset!” Margo flipped it off.

  “We’ll have to go south until we get to the Putnam Bridge, go over that and up Route 5 until we’re past the breakdown site. Then we can get back on I-91,” she announced. “The good news is, we have that alternative. The bad news is, all of these folks know about it, too.” She waved an all-encompassing hand at the hundreds of cars already lining up at the traffic light.

  Well, at least we had a plan—one with an indefinite timetable, but a plan nevertheless. We switched off all of our devices and settled in for the duration. As we crept along in fits and starts, my mind drifted to the funeral directors’ convention at the Hilton. “I wonder how Duane and Becky are faring? Should we call one of them, do you think?”

  May shook her head emphatically. “I spoke with Duane briefly late yesterday evening. He said he and Becky had both passed drinks and hors d’oeuvres at the welcome reception, and the crowd was big enough that they would be needed all day today, so they’re busy. He said they have lots of opportunities to mingle with the other temporary workers in the kitchen and banquet hall, and he’s even run into a couple of fellows he worked with last summer. He thinks today’s keynote address will give him an opening to ask them if either one happened to work at last week’s keynote luncheon and say wow, that must have been a mess with the featured speaker being found dead in her room and so on and so forth. Becky can stand around all wide-eyed and ask the obvious questions, get the gossip. Let’s leave them be and see what they have to say after that, maybe call them on our way back to Hartford.”

  Margo clenched the steering wheel with both hands and groaned. “I hate this stop-and-start inching along. It’s boring and demanding at the same time. I have to keep up with the traffic ahead so as not to annoy the driver behind me, but I have to pay close attention to keep from running into the guy ahead.”

  “Want me to take over for a while?” I offered.

  “I’d love it, Sugar, but I don’t dare pull off this road. I’d never get back on.”

  She had a point.

  It was nearly noon when we pulled into the parking lot of the two-story public library in Hubbard, Massachusetts, and pulled ourselves out of the car. As we inspected the well-kept brick building, which sprawled invitingly over a large, treed lot, May rubbed her cramped lower back and Margo rubbed her aching hands, which had been gripping the steering wheel for far too long.

  Having contorted myself in the back seat for almost four hours, I sat for a minute and dangled my legs out the open car door before hauling myself to my feet. We were hungry, cranky and sorely in need of a bathroom as we shuffled up the entrance stairs and through the automatic doors. Beyond a large, high-ceilinged foyer was the main desk. Probably due to the impending storm, the area was busy as local residents flocked to stock up on reading material and DVDs for the duration.

  “So what’s the plan, Auntie May?” Margo asked with little of her customary enthusiasm. No doubt she was already dreading the return drive. I know I was.

  “First things first,” May muttered, making a beeline for a door marked Women on the far side of the main floor. Margo and I wasted no time following her. We were all dismayed to discover that a key was required, available
at the front desk, according to a posted notice, and we looked despairingly at the line already formed before it.

  “I guess they have to lock public bathrooms in self-defense these days, or heaven only knows what would be going on in them all day,” I said. “Hang on, and I’ll try to circumvent the line and plead extreme urgency.” On my way back to the main desk, I caught sight of the reference desk, blessedly abandoned but for a single middle-aged woman staffing the computer. I hurried over. The name tag pinned to her ample bosom read “Marian.”

  “I’m so sorry to bother you, Marian, but my elderly friend is desperately in need of your bathroom, and there’s quite a line at the main desk.” I gestured to where May stood with Margo and hoped she hadn’t overheard me refer to her as elderly. “You wouldn’t happen to have a key at this desk, would you?”

  The woman pushed her computer glasses down her nose and looked over my shoulder at May with sympathy. Then she looked right and left and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Afraid I don’t,” she whispered, “but fear not.” She yanked open a small drawer and fished around in a bowl of paper clips, which yielded a sturdy door key. “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” she winked as she pressed it into my hand. “Staff bathroom is directly behind me in the DVD stacks. Unmarked door between the long sets of shelves. Don’t forget to return the key, or my life won’t be worth living around here.”

  “You’re a lifesaver!” I breathed and waved at May and Margo to follow me.

  A few minutes later we all emerged, refreshed, and hastened to return the precious key to Marian, who was still miraculously free of customers. May stepped up to thank her, then blurted, “We’ve come all the way from Wethersfield, Connecticut, because we understand the Hubbard Library has a particularly extensive collection of the W.Z.B. Trague mysteries. That’s right, isn’t it?”