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keep Gracie company until then.” Our ginger cat Grace had made her preference for my husband clear from her first days with us as a two-year-old rescue cat, but she managed to put up with me when needs must. A food source was a food source.
    Thinking of our pet made me think of Margo’s old Labrador retriever, Rhett Butler. Until recently, he had been her devoted and constant companion and a regular visitor to the Law Barn. He even had his own pen under the trees in the building’s tiny back yard, where he and the squirrels held staring matches in good weather. Advancing age and the company of a female mixed breed adopted from a local shelter kept Rhett contentedly at home on most days now.
    “How are Rhett and Sassy doing?” I asked Margo. I miss seeing Rhett padding around after you or sleeping on our rug.”
    “His arthritis kicks up a bit in this cold and damp, but whose doesn’t?” Margo wiggled her fingers and made a face. “We’ll both be glad for some spring sunshine. In the meantime, Sassy keeps him cozy. She thinks Rhett’s purpose in life is to let her sleep on him, when she isn’t droppin’ a toy on his head and beggin’ him to play with her.”
    “Yeah, she’s sort of like Becky here,” Duane teased, “yap, yap, yap.” He dropped his pencil and ran for the stairs as Becky swiped at him with the folded newspaper.
    We were all a little startled when the big front door of the Law Barn creaked open to admit a distinguished, sixty-ish man, who for some reason made me think of a police officer, well bundled up against the cold. He calmly regarded the tea party going on in the lobby.
    Becky snapped back into receptionist mode and flashed him a welcoming smile. “Hi, can we help you with something?”
    Our visitor looked around uncertainly but approached Becky’s desk. With some difficulty, due to his layers of clothing, he managed to extract a business card from an inside pocket and held it out to her.
    “Martin Schenk, Hotel Security, Hartford Hilton,” she read aloud and looked at us in alarm.
    “I’m in charge of security at the Hilton,” Schenk confirmed unnecessarily. “Can you tell me where to find Romantic Nights Publishing? I need to speak with Maybelle Farnsworth.”

 
     
     
Chapter Four
     
     
    On her way down the stairs to refresh her mug of tea, Isabelle Marchand looked startled to see the group assembled in the lobby, especially since complete silence had fallen over us. Neatly dressed, tidily coiffed and naturally reserved in manner, Isabelle instinctively looked to May for guidance.
    “It’s okay, Isabelle, you aren’t interrupting anything.” May got to her feet and approached Schenk, her hand extended. “I’m Maybelle Farnsworth, and the surprised-looking woman on the stairs is Isabelle Marchand, my partner in Romantic Nights Publishing. The other members of this motley crew work in other capacities in this building. How can we help you?”
    Schenk shook May’s hand diffidently as Isabelle came over to join them. He was obviously perplexed to discover that a lovely lady, well into her seventies, was the CEO in question.
    “This is Mr. Schenk of the Hartford Hilton, where the Mysteries USA conference is being held, Isabelle. Can we offer you coffee, Mr. Schenk, or perhaps some hot tea? No? Well, do sit down, at least.”
    Duane and Becky discreetly vanished into the file room, where they knew they could eavesdrop in peace, while the rest of us rearranged ourselves in the seating area.
    “I’ll get right to the point.” Schenk fumbled in a different inside pocket and produced a rather thick No. 10 business envelope bearing the return address imprint of the Hartford Hilton. He handed it to May, whose brow furrowed. “As you can see, ma’am, it’s addressed to you, although the writer didn’t seem to know your street address. Do you know who it’s from?” His voice was gruff.
    May glanced at the spidery handwriting. “Not without opening it. Why are you hand