To quell my jitters, I made small talk about their weekend at the Hilton. “I know Duane ran into a former catering colleague, so that must have been fun.”
“Beyond fun,” he enthused. “At first I had my mind mostly on getting information about Lizabeth Mulgrew, but after the first night, I couldn’t help but get into what Brad was doing and how good he was at it.”
“That’s the chief wine steward,” Becky reminded me. “He actually caught my eye at first, because he’s so good looking, but it didn’t take long for me to realize he was never going to be interested in me.” She wiggled her eyebrows at me in the rearview mirror. “So I introduced him to Duane.”
I couldn’t help smiling a little. “Then it was more than Brad’s knowledge of wine that interested you, hmm?”
Duane reddened a little but decided ignoring us was his best plan. “The thing is, he really enjoys his job—talking with vendors, ordering the wine, keeping track of the inventory, helping people choose wines they can afford that he knows they would really enjoy. And he’s studying to become a Master Sommelier, which is an impressive title in the industry. It made me stop and think.”
“About?” I prompted.
“About maybe looking into that kind of work myself,” he said, reddening again. “I mean, that’s what this gap year is supposed to be about, looking into different things and finding out what really interests me before I go chasing after some expensive university degree that leaves me in debt and probably unemployable. It’s better to have a specific goal in mind, don’t you think?”
“I do,” I said cautiously, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea to base a career decision on the impromptu experiences of one weekend, especially when under the influence of a good-looking wine steward.” It was my turn to wiggle my eyebrows in the mirror at Becky, and she laughed as Duane squirmed.
“What am I, five years old?” he snapped, and the testy edge to his voice let us know it was time to lay off. “Anyway, who are you to talk, Becky? It seems to me you spent a lot of time with, what was his name, Dave?”
Becky grinned at him with equanimity. “Yup, his name is Dave, and you’d better get used to seeing him around, because I really like him. The difference is, I’m not changing my college major to become a room service waiter any time soon.”
Duane balled up a glove he yanked from his jacket pocket and threw it at her head. Becky immediately tossed it back at him.
“Whoa, whoa, not while Auntie Kate is trying to pay attention to traffic, okay, kids?” I pleaded. It reminded me of a time more than twenty years ago when my own two kids had behaved this way nearly every time they were in a car together. I couldn’t take it for long then, and my tolerance hadn’t improved with the years. “How about giving the Harknesses and May a call to find out where they are?” I suggested. As I recalled, diversionary tactics had worked pretty well with my toddlers. Maybe it still would.
I should have predicted that both of them would immediately yank out their cell phones and race to be the first to get their call through.
“Mrs. Farnsworth? Hi, it’s Becky …”
“Ms. Harkness? Duane here …”
I sighed and glanced at my GPS, which informed me that I was still a good thirty-five minutes from the Hubbard library. I tried to tune out the conflicting phone conversations and concentrate on my driving, not very successfully. In a couple of minutes, both Duane and Becky disconnected.
“So? Where are they?” I asked, and they started to speak at once. I held up one hand. “Becky, what did May have to say?”
She smirked at Duane, and he stuck out his tongue. Seriously, a sommelier? I thought.
“They’re just pulling into the library in Lee.”
Duane butted in. “Yeah, they’re making a big deal out of it, driving around the lot a couple of times and pulling up right outside the entrance. Margo’s husband is making a fuss about dropping her and May off, because of her ankle and all. She’s even wearing one of those drugstore walking casts. Then he’ll drive back into the lot to leave the car.”
“They’re doing everything they can to draw attention to themselves while looking around at the same time. So far, they haven’t seen anybody following them.”
I digested this information. “They wouldn’t necessarily notice anything, though, would they? We didn’t notice anyone following us the last time we were in Hubbard. It would be easy to get a different rental car, in case we remembered the SUV Schenk was driving then. At least we think it was Martin Schenk. I haven’t seen anybody following us today either, but as I say, that’s really no assurance. We’re getting near Hubbard, so try to pay close attention, okay?”
Silence fell as I negotiated the remaining few miles to the Hubbard library. Because of the delay in getting through the commuter traffic in Hartford, we were a few minutes later arriving than I had thought, but it was still only 6:10 p.m. The parking lot outside the library had a couple of vehicles parked in it, both with Massachusetts plates; and because it was a weeknight, I allowed for the possibility of a janitor or possibly someone working overtime. I knew Marian lived in the adjacent apartment building, so one of the cars probably wasn’t hers. Still, we’d asked her to drive to Lenox on her lunch hour, and perhaps it had been quicker for her simply to park in the library lot on her return to work.
In blessed silence, Becky and Duane clambered out of the car with me and walked me to the entrance, all of us trying not to look over our shoulders every few seconds. Remembering what Marian had told me on the phone, I located the night bell to the left of the book drop by the entrance door and pushed it firmly. I could hear it resonating dimly within the bowels of the building.
“Why don’t you two stretch your legs and wait for me out here?” I suggested. “This should take only a couple of minutes, and you’ve been cooped up in my little car long enough. We’ll stop for pizza on the way home, maybe get the Harknesses and May to join us. What do you say, are you up for that?”
They agreed with alacrity, pizza being maybe the one thing guaranteed to cheer up a teenager, as I recalled. “That’s cool,” Duane enthused. “We’ve had nothing but chi-chi food for two whole days. Bring on the grease.”
“Gee, when you put it like that, I can hardly wait.” Becky rolled her eyes. “Better press that bell again, Kate. I don’t see the door opening yet.”
I did as she suggested, pressing a thumb on the bell for several seconds. Since I could hear it, standing outside the building, I had to believe whoever was still inside could hear it, too.
“Okay, run along. Do a lap around the building or something to get the kinks out, but don’t get too far away. As soon as I’m out of here, we’ll hit the road. Ah, there we go,” I added as the front door popped open a few inches, and I ran to catch the edge and let myself in.
I pulled the door shut behind me carefully, in case there was an alarm system keeping track of how long it was open after hours, and paused to let my eyes adjust to the interior gloom. Once they did, I froze.
Facing me was Marian, eyes wide and apologetic. Behind her was a woman I assumed to be Renata Parsons. She held Marian firmly across the neck with one arm, and in her other hand was a small handgun, which she pressed into Marian’s ribs. She stared at me, her expression blank, her eyes dazed, and I wondered irrelevantly when she’d slept last.
“Tell her,” Renata said to Marian. “Tell her that if you don’t give me the flash drive, I’m going to pull this trigger and leave you to die. After that, I’ll shoot her and put the gun into her hand. She’ll be blamed for your death.” She jerked her arm harder across Marian’s throat.
“I’m so sorry,” Marian apologized to me, which under other circumstances might have been almost comical. As things stood, the situation was surreal and terrifying. “She was hiding in the fiction stacks, and after I locked the front door and got the flash drive out of my desk, she jumped out at me with that … thing,” she finished uncertainly, her eyes flicking over her shoulder.
I gave Marian a shaky grin. “We never should have asked you to put yourself in harm’s way.” I switched my gaze to Renata. “Trashing May’s house was one thing, but we never dreamed anyone would be malevolent enough to kill for a book. If the damned manuscript is so important to you, then take it. My only question is, once you do, will you really let us go? After all, we know who you are. Why wouldn’t we go to the police with the whole story?”
As I talked, my fingers found my cell phone in my jacket pocket, and I pressed a speed dial number at random. Chances are it would belong to Margo or Strutter, Duane or Becky, Isabelle or May, and if they heard what was going on, maybe there was a slim chance they could get help to us in time. With gun pressed into Marian’s ribs, it was worth trying. I was also gauging my chances of knocking Renata down before she actually pulled the trigger. Not very good, but if it came to that, I’d chance it.
Renata smiled at me with pure venom, her glassy eyes betraying the madness that had overtaken her. “Two dead women can’t dial 911, and I will have disappeared. I’ve been planning this for some time now, ever since Lizabeth told me she no longer required my services, not to mention my discretion about her pen name, and my new identity is totally in place.” She laughed without mirth. “I even rented that Honda in the parking lot under my new name, so I can get to … where I’m going … without any trouble at all.”
Marian looked ready to faint. Frantically, I struggled to keep Renata talking so that whoever was on the other end of that speed dial could get an idea of what was going on. “The point of this whole bizarre exercise is publishing the new manuscript and making a fortune, but how can you publish the Trague-Mulgrew manuscript and remain anonymous? There are contracts and all sorts of people who are involved in the publishing process. You know that. They’re bound to know something isn’t right, no matter how convincing your story is.” A movement in my peripheral vision alerted me to a figure crouched next to the reference desk. I blinked my eyes. Was it real or a figment of my imagination? All I could think to do was keep talking. “Lizabeth’s attorney, for example. He has a copy of her letter and knows Lizabeth intended May to have the rights to the manuscript. As soon as there’s even a rumor of publication, he’ll be all over it—and you.” The figure next to the reference desk straightened up silently and resolved itself into a man. He crept stealthily toward us.
With an enormous effort, I held Renata’s eyes with my own. Again, her smile was malicious. “I think you’ll find that Attorney Henley will be completely unmotivated to create a problem for me. There was a little matter in his professional history that my brother Martin uncovered in his days as a police investigator. The evidence wasn’t presented at the time, but Henley knows I have it. I think of it as my little insurance policy. Should it get into the hands of the right people, Henley would certainly find himself disbarred and humiliated. And as for keeping my secret, after years of helping Lizabeth keep her double identity confidential, I’m quite adept at navigating publishing channels with complete anonymity. Of course, having an attorney in my pocket will help considerably with that.”
Simultaneously, the night bell pealed loudly, and someone hammered on the front door. The combination was startling enough to redirect Renata’s attention away from me for a couple of seconds. The last thing I heard before lunging toward her was Duane yelling, “Kate! Marian! Open up!” At the same moment, several uniformed police officers crashed through a plate glass window beside the door, followed closely by John Harkness. The alarm began shrieking. I threw myself at Marian and knocked her to the ground as the mystery man clamped Renata’s arm, the one holding the gun, in his own and yanked her away from us, revealing his face to me for the first time. Seemingly without fear or pity, Martin Schenk slammed Renata’s forearm against the edge of the steel reference desk, breaking the bone with an audible and nauseating snap. Renata screamed, and the gun fell harmlessly onto the rug, where he kicked it away.
As John and the uniformed officers approached, weapons drawn, Renata’s wailing joined that of the alarm. “How could you betray me—my own brother?”
Chapter Twenty-One
The pizza I’d promised Duane and Becky was a long time coming, but by nine-thirty the majority of our dazed group members were gathered around a conference table at the library, savoring Hubbard Pizzeria’s finest slices. John Harkness, who somehow always managed to get stuck with sorting out the technicalities of our escapades over the years, remained at the police department, as did Martin Parsons, formerly known to us as Martin Schenk. Although he would not be formally arrested unless May decided to bring charges, he would be what the police termed “a person of interest” in their investigation.
Ever resourceful, despite her harrowing evening, Marian arranged for the pizza delivery and contacted the library’s on-call handyman, who was at that moment replacing the smashed window at the front of the building. May and I scrounged up paper plates and napkins plus bottles of water and soda from the staff kitchen. We made a mental note to leave cash with Marian to replenish the employees’ stash. Then Marian produced an old Spiderphone, which Duane connected efficiently to the extension in the conference room, and got Strutter and Isabelle on the line so they could hear the whole story as we pieced it together.
Becky accepted delivery on the pizza and kept Margo company as they set the table for our impromptu and long overdue dinner. Between mouthfuls of pepperoni and cheese, she urged Duane to explain how Marian and I came to be rescued.
“As soon as you went inside the building, Kate, we knew it had been a mistake not to go in with you,” he began. “Something just didn’t feel right, like those two cars still in the lot. Who did they belong to? Even figuring one belonged to Marian, there was an extra vehicle with no driver in sight, which meant he or she had to be inside. So we were hinky right away.”
“Hinky?” Isabelle’s voice floated eerily from the Spider phone.
“Suspicious,” Strutter explained. “We get it. Go on, Duane.”
“So we waited for exactly two minutes, and then we phoned Lieutenant Harkness—well, Margo, actually, but we knew he was with her. We explained the situation and asked him what to do. He thought about it for about three seconds and then told us to start hammering on the door and making all the noise we could while he contacted the Hubbard P.D., but under no circumstances were we supposed to go inside. The noise was only a distraction.”
“He was amazing,” Becky said, her eyes wide. “He didn’t hesitate for a minute, didn’t worry about looking stupid in front of the Hubbard police, nothing. He just knew what to do and went for it.”
Margo and May exchanged grins. “Yep, that’s our John, all right,” Margo agreed. “Then what happened?”
“John got through to the police on his Bluetooth and asked for emergency assistance at the library. Then he put his foot down. Frankly, I was terrified, but he wove through that traffic like an Indy 500 driver,” May confessed. “We got to the library just as two cruisers arrived, no sirens, just as John had requested. And the rest, you know.” This last was directed to me, since I had accompanied John and Martin to the police station to make a statement and had more up-to-date information than the others. Everyone looked at me expectantly.
I looked at my pizza and pushed it away. I was exhausted, and my stomach was more in the mood for chicken soup than greasy pizza. Still, the group assembled around the table deserved the whole story as I understood it. Doubtless, there would be details to fill in, but I was in a position to outline the big picture to them.
“First of all, John was able to learn that the autopsy on Lizabeth Mulgrew showed she died of an AVM, an arteriovenous malformation, in the brain. It’s sort of a tangle of abnormal and poorly formed blood vessels. She apparently had it for a long time and spent some time in the hospital many years ago, when it ruptured. That’s when she met Renata Parsons.”
May looked puzzled. “She met a literary agent in the hospital?”
“She wasn’t an agent back then
. She was a surgical nurse training to be an anesthesiologist. Anyway, after meeting Lizabeth, it turned out she was more interested in making money than in helping patients, so she switched gears and went into business for herself as an agent.
“Lizabeth also had a career crisis at about the same time, deciding she would rather write books than publish them. She figured her chances of success as an author were slim, so she hedged her bet by writing under a pen name and recruited Lizabeth to market her book and keep her secret, which she did for some years.”
“She surely did, if even Auntie May had no idea about Wilhelm Trague’s true identity,” Margo commented, and her aunt nodded.
I continued, eager to get my recitation over with so we could all go home to bed. “Anyway, that worked well for a number of years, and both Lizabeth and Renata did very well financially over the sale of several manuscripts to Random House until Lizabeth had another AVM crisis last year. That can happen at any time, so life gets very iffy. There are no guarantees.”
“There never are.” Strutter’s detached voice floated from the Spiderphone. “It’s a valuable lesson to learn, and most of us learn it a lot sooner than Lizabeth Mulgrew did.”
“So that must be what prompted her to have some fun, as she called it in her letter, with her final manuscript,” Isabelle mused.
“She must have sensed that another rupture would be the last one,” May added. “Poor Lizzie, not having anyone to share that with. But then, she was always an independent cuss and a loose cannon right to the end, as it turned out.”
I took a sip of water. “That’s when things went wrong between her and Renata. Lizabeth had become aware that Renata had been cheating her out of royalty income from her previous manuscripts, and she refused to sign a representation contract with her for Swan Song. Not surprisingly, the news didn’t sit well with Renata. She totally lost it, according to her brother Martin.”
Swan Song Page 18