Swan Song Read Online Free Page B
Author: Judith K Ivie
no. Interesting, yes.
Chapter Three
Duane dropped us at the main entrance to the Hilton on Trumbull Street shortly before noon. After making careful note of his cell phone number and slipping him a twenty dollar bill for parking and lunch, “my treat,” May promised to call him as soon as she decently could. “I know there are panel discussions scheduled for 1:30 this afternoon, so they’ll have to wrap up the luncheon before then,” she said with obvious relief as we headed up the escalator from the lobby once again.
Today our destination was the grand ballroom, which had been set in typical banquet fashion with rows of tables and chairs placed perpendicular to the stage. The head table at the back ran parallel to the stage and was banked with flowers. A podium scarf in the very center bore the logo of Mysteries USA. Behind it were a small speaker’s desk and a microphone.
“That’s where Lizzie will drop her bombshells,” May whispered as we once more made our way through the chattering crowd, consisting mostly of older women. Every few seconds a voice would call, “May, hello!” or “Good luck tonight,” and May would smile gamely and wave at the well-wisher before eeling off in another direction.
“Where are we sitting?” I asked her. “The seats all seem to be up for grabs. As an award nominee, don’t you sit at the head table?”
“Not today, thank goodness. That’s Saturday’s little horror. Right now I’m just trying to keep from being cornered by some over-eager and minimally talented hopeful who wants to pick my brain about how to get published. Quick, over there.”
She grabbed my arm and tugged me toward the last row of tables, still relatively unoccupied, where we snagged two empty seats at the near end. “Fire stairs are right there,” May crowed triumphantly, pointing at a nearby door. “When this shindig looks as if it’s winding down, we can slide on out of here and be in the lobby in two shakes.”
“Wow, you really know all the angles,” I complimented her, impressed.
“Honey, when you’ve been to as many of these tedious things as I have, you learn never to walk into a room without knowing where the nearest exit is and how to get through it fast without drawing attention to yourself. It’s Convention Survival 101.”
I nodded appreciatively, never having been a fan of large functions myself. I’d spent many years schmoozing potential clients and investors as part of my marketing and public relations jobs before I met Margo and Strutter. In those years my primary goals at large gatherings were finding a parking spot that would facilitate a hasty retreat when I was ready to leave, then putting in the acceptable minimum of time without glancing at my watch too often.
“I hear you. Making chit-chat with a bunch of strangers bores me witless. So how did you get roped into attending Mysteries USA this year?”
May sighed heavily. “I could have made up an excuse, I guess, but it has to mean a lot to Lizzie to have two of her authors nominated for the top prize. I know you must have your doubts about her after last night’s little performance in the stair well, but Lizabeth Mulgrew has been a good friend to me over the years. With the annual convention being held so close to Wethersfield, it seemed the least I could do was show up for a couple of functions—and the awards dinner, of course.”
As I gazed around at the now mostly seated attendees, May pretended to be engrossed in the conference program, which she held in front of her face.
“There aren’t many men here, are there?” I noted, prompting a snort from May that was so like Margo’s, I smiled. Another trait that must run in the Farnsworth gene pool. “Don’t men write mystery novels these days?”
“They surely do. In fact, some of the very best mystery writers are men. They just seem to have enough sense not to come to these idiotic functions unless they’re getting paid to
Chapter Three
Duane dropped us at the main entrance to the Hilton on Trumbull Street shortly before noon. After making careful note of his cell phone number and slipping him a twenty dollar bill for parking and lunch, “my treat,” May promised to call him as soon as she decently could. “I know there are panel discussions scheduled for 1:30 this afternoon, so they’ll have to wrap up the luncheon before then,” she said with obvious relief as we headed up the escalator from the lobby once again.
Today our destination was the grand ballroom, which had been set in typical banquet fashion with rows of tables and chairs placed perpendicular to the stage. The head table at the back ran parallel to the stage and was banked with flowers. A podium scarf in the very center bore the logo of Mysteries USA. Behind it were a small speaker’s desk and a microphone.
“That’s where Lizzie will drop her bombshells,” May whispered as we once more made our way through the chattering crowd, consisting mostly of older women. Every few seconds a voice would call, “May, hello!” or “Good luck tonight,” and May would smile gamely and wave at the well-wisher before eeling off in another direction.
“Where are we sitting?” I asked her. “The seats all seem to be up for grabs. As an award nominee, don’t you sit at the head table?”
“Not today, thank goodness. That’s Saturday’s little horror. Right now I’m just trying to keep from being cornered by some over-eager and minimally talented hopeful who wants to pick my brain about how to get published. Quick, over there.”
She grabbed my arm and tugged me toward the last row of tables, still relatively unoccupied, where we snagged two empty seats at the near end. “Fire stairs are right there,” May crowed triumphantly, pointing at a nearby door. “When this shindig looks as if it’s winding down, we can slide on out of here and be in the lobby in two shakes.”
“Wow, you really know all the angles,” I complimented her, impressed.
“Honey, when you’ve been to as many of these tedious things as I have, you learn never to walk into a room without knowing where the nearest exit is and how to get through it fast without drawing attention to yourself. It’s Convention Survival 101.”
I nodded appreciatively, never having been a fan of large functions myself. I’d spent many years schmoozing potential clients and investors as part of my marketing and public relations jobs before I met Margo and Strutter. In those years my primary goals at large gatherings were finding a parking spot that would facilitate a hasty retreat when I was ready to leave, then putting in the acceptable minimum of time without glancing at my watch too often.
“I hear you. Making chit-chat with a bunch of strangers bores me witless. So how did you get roped into attending Mysteries USA this year?”
May sighed heavily. “I could have made up an excuse, I guess, but it has to mean a lot to Lizzie to have two of her authors nominated for the top prize. I know you must have your doubts about her after last night’s little performance in the stair well, but Lizabeth Mulgrew has been a good friend to me over the years. With the annual convention being held so close to Wethersfield, it seemed the least I could do was show up for a couple of functions—and the awards dinner, of course.”
As I gazed around at the now mostly seated attendees, May pretended to be engrossed in the conference program, which she held in front of her face.
“There aren’t many men here, are there?” I noted, prompting a snort from May that was so like Margo’s, I smiled. Another trait that must run in the Farnsworth gene pool. “Don’t men write mystery novels these days?”
“They surely do. In fact, some of the very best mystery writers are men. They just seem to have enough sense not to come to these idiotic functions unless they’re getting paid to
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