Staccato by Deborah J Ledford

Three world-class pianists.
Two possible killers.
One dead woman.
Who is her murderer?
Who will be next? 

When acclaimed pianist Nicholas Kalman discovers his lover’s dead body, he sets out alone to find her killer. During his journey, he meets an unwitting female accomplice who soon becomes determined to help Nicholas wield his retaliation. Following a parallel path for justice, Steven Hawk, the deputy of a sleepy Southern county, is assigned to the case. Pursuing the investigation, Hawk finds himself entangled in a world of vengeance, greed and manipulation.

Performed against the backdrop of the Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina, Staccato transports readers to a behind-the-scenes glimpse of professional musicians, the psychological twists and turns of its characters, and in the end, retribution that crashes in a crescendo of notes played at the literary pace of a maestro’s staccato.

Staccato is the first novel of the Steven Hawk/Inola Walela thriller trilogy.

Chapter One

Nobody decides to go mad. Tragedies occur—forces of nature, emotional distress, sorrow for those taken too soon, terror writhing below the skin.

Other elements drive people to madness—smoldering rage, silent words that never stop rambling in the mind, unrequited passion, even merely following the path of destiny.

Fear also motivates insanity. If limits are pushed to the extreme there are few other alternatives than to face obstacles, or to flee from them.

I chose to flee. That was my undoing.

These are the events that drove me to the edge.

 

Three hours earlier Nicholas Kalman had discovered what he now knew to be his father’s journal buried in a bookcase. After reading the leather bound book for the fourth time, each page now appeared as a separate snapshot locked in his mind, as did every piece of classical music he had studied since the age of five. For Nicholas, the capability of a photographic memory straddled the line of celebration and curse.

Now, he struggled with the realization that the words had been written by a man he had never known . . . and that these ominous passages were intended for him. Using his finger as a marker, he closed the book and studied the nondescript binding. Numbed by the words, he sat in an overstuffed red velvet chair and stared across the music room of his Uncle Alexander’s ten thousand square foot mansion.

Ringing in his ears grew louder and he became aware that the Chopin had ceased flowing from the speakers concealed by tapestries of European landscapes hung along the walls.

Nicholas’s mind dizzied from reading about the premonition of approaching doom, forewarning him of his own. Swallowing hard, he considered his father’s fear. Then he realized the terror was real, filling his mouth with a copper taste. This can’t be true. He wiped a trail of sweat from his temple with his sleeve, set the journal on the table beside him and forced himself to tear his eyes from it.

Compelled by the words, he found it impossible to re-shelve the book, or to dismiss the pages as utter fiction. He wondered what the written implications meant for him. Reading his father’s recollections, he had fallen under their spell. His father warned of the seductive elements to be cautious of—things that had already ensnared Nicholas.

Looking around, he recognized what his father had described as cunning manipulations of deceiving comfort: first edition books exhibited within walnut cases surrounding him in a ritualistic circle, the ebony Steinway grand piano that sat regally upon a platform in the middle of the music room, exactly as the writings stated. The details even noted how flames from the fireplace bathed the Pakistani rug in an amber glow.

The visuals Nicholas discovered within the journal were vivid and concise, even the mention of the single malt Scotch he had been sipping. The liquor’s bitter aftertaste urged him out of the chair. Baccarat tumbler in hand, he crossed the room to the bar and tossed the watered-down remains into the sink. He washed the crystal then polished the glass until it sparkled. He was careful to replace the tumbler in its original position equidistant from four others, then he angled the matching decanter directly in line with its crystal tray.

Cracking open a ginger ale from the mini refrigerator under the counter, he swallowed a mouthful. Refreshed by the cold, crisp drink, he went to the bookcase and placed two fingers in the crevice where he had found the journal, stuffed between thick editions of Elizabethan theatrical theory. How did I not see it before tonight?

Nicholas shuddered, feeling the ghost of his father join him. Though he did not know the final outcome of the man’s life whose blood coursed through his own veins, Nicholas did know that his father, Charles Ian Hunt, like himself, had once been a celebrated world-class pianist.

As a boy, Nicholas had been told that at the time of his birth, his father’s talents had been presented at renowned performance halls world-wide. Over the years, Nicholas had heard snippets of conversations between his Uncle Alexander and others about how Charles had deserted his wife and infant son, as well as his profession. His agent and managers had been horrified by his disappearance, but fellow competitors had celebrated the departure, at last rid of Charles’s upstaging and the confident, sold-out performances that brought audiences to their feet.

Walking in a fog to the Steinway, Nicholas trailed his fingers across the keys. Faint tones from the perfectly tuned instrument resonated throughout the room. He fought the temptation to sit at the keyboard, to lose himself and his new circumstance in a piece of music. Focus. You can’t pretend this away. It’s part of you now.

Nicholas’s head throbbed with his heartbeat. Should I mention this to Uncle Alexander? Returning to settle back in the chair, he picked up the journal. Nicholas recognized how his father’s past had mirrored his own life. He shared the man’s unease as he flipped yellowed pages to a particularly troubling passage.

Nicholas, my son, if you ever find these words, I urge you to be careful.

Beware of this man you call, Uncle. Although he will make promises of wealth and fame—the price will be that of your soul.

It is a caution I did not heed. And now that he has finally found me, I am sure to never see you again.

Watch over your mother, Nicholas. Keep her near you, or I fear she will simply disappear—lost to you forever.

 

Nicholas thought of all the people over the years who had left his life without as much as a goodbye: several servants, various workers at the mansion, a tutor who disagreed with Alexander about his teaching methods . . . most of all, Nicholas’s mother.

His stomach in knots, unable to deal with any more warnings, he slammed the journal shut. A sense of dread settled in his stomach. He realized that destiny and doom had found its way into his life—and into the very room his father had once known. His gaze went to the piano and he wondered if his father’s fingers had touched those same ivory keys.

In a daze Nicholas left the music room, the journal clutched in his hand. He descended one flight of stairs, then walked along the second floor hallway of the mansion. When he reached his bedroom, he noticed light streaming from the crack at the floor.

Slipping inside, he eased the door shut and leaned against it. He scanned the room, its comforts calming his tense nerves. Flames licked in the fireplace, the duvet on the king-sized bed had been turned down, heavy drapes were drawn across the floor-to-ceiling windows. He pivoted his attention to the far end of the room. A slight smile lifted his lips.

Elaine Kalman sat in a plush wingback chair, feet tucked under her, dressed only in one of Nicholas’s lavender dress shirts. He watched as she studied one of her ever-present college textbooks, occasionally making notations on a legal pad. He slid out of his loafers and walked to her.

She flipped back her curtain of long blonde hair and tucked a lock behind her ear. “Where have you been?” she asked in a stern voice followed by a stunning smile.

Nicholas bent down to kiss her full lips. “I hoped you would be here.”

She tossed the book aside. “Just me and Introduction to International Finance.”

“Well, now, I have something way more interesting for you to study.” Nicholas held the gaze of her lazy gray eyes, then ran the tip of his tongue the length of her upturned neck.

“I’ve missed you,” she purred, pulling him to her.

“It’s late. Won’t your mother be worried?”

“I told her I was pulling an all night study session with Olivia at her dorm.”

“Who’s Olivia?”

Elaine gave him a shrug and a coy smile. “Someone I made up. What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the journal.

Nicholas hesitated, then settled on the floor and leaned his shoulder against her leg. “I found it in the music room. Practice wasn’t going well. Uncle screamed at me as usual, ‘In my opinion your timing is utterly without explanation,’” he said in a clipped European accent. “Then he stormed out all pissed off.”

Elaine laughed as she gathered a handful of his curls and tugged playfully. “You sound exactly like him.”

“I was sitting at the piano and this book caught my eye. How many years ago did your mother adopt me? Ten, right?”

She nodded and joined him on the floor.

“I’ve lived here ever since. Ten years in that very room. Six, seven, twelve, hours every day except when I’m on tour.” He frowned at the book. “Strange that I only ran across this thing tonight. It must have been stuck in that bookshelf all that time.” He tilted toward her and whispered, “It’s like it was calling out to me.”

“Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“My father’s journal.”

Elaine’s eyes widened. “No way. How do you know?”

He opened the cover, turned to the first written page and pointed to the dedication: FOR MY SON, NICHOLAS RENFREW HUNT.

She traced a finger over the last word. “Hunt?”

“My real name.”

“I never knew that.”

“There’s some pretty disturbing stuff in here,” he said, closing the book.

“Like what?”

He hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal for fear of alarming her. “It seems like a warning.”

“A warning?”

“To beware of Alexander.”

Elaine chuckled. “What does that mean?”

“Maybe I’m reading something into nothing. I don’t know what to make of it yet.”

Silence fell over them, neither taking their eyes off the journal.

“Do you want to read some of it to me?” Elaine asked in an uneasy voice.

Nicholas shook his head.

“Are you okay?”

His eyes locked on hers. “Honestly?”

“Of course.” Taking his face in her hands, she said, “Always.”

“I’m a little freaked.” Troubled by the frown across Elaine’s brow, Nicholas tossed the journal to the thick carpet and gave her his full attention. “Now I’ve worried you.”

“No, it’s okay, I just don’t know what to think about this. What does he say about Alexander that’s got you so freaked out?”

“Nothing.”  Nicholas sighed. “I want to forget about it for now. Forget about everything and everyone but you and me.”

“I know what you need.” She rose to sit on the chair they had been leaning against. Rubbing his shoulders, she quietly hummed a tune she had told him often ran through her head; a lullaby her mother sang when content.

He tipped his head back to look up at her. “That’s nice.” Elaine kissed his forehead. Finally able to relax, he exhaled and closed his eyes. “Are you staying here tonight?”

“If you want me to.”

Nicholas turned around to face her. “It’s not about want. It’s about need. But if Alexander ever found out about us, he would flip out. I mean, it’s a rush sneaking around behind his back, but it’s dangerous, too.”

Her smoldering eyes made him want her more. While they kissed, he reached for her shirt and found the top button, releasing one silver pearl stud after another. He leaned up to kiss the hollow of her neck.

Standing, he began to unbutton his shirt, prompting her to rise and help him. She pushed his roving hands away and he chuckled, struggling with his cuffs. He pulled the shirt off his shoulders and stood back to display his toned chest.

Eyes wide, hand to her mouth, Elaine gaped him. “God,” she whispered, reaching out to touch his chest.

Nicholas looked down at what she gaped at: a golf ball-sized welt over his right pectoral, angry red, ringed with purple. He whipped the shirt back on, cursing himself for being so careless. His mind hijacked by passion, he had forgotten about the lashing he had suffered a few hours earlier.

Buttoning up, he brushed past her to sit on the bed. “Like I said, practice didn’t go very well today.”

“Alexander hit you?”

He replied with a weary shrug.

She went to him and knelt between his legs. Her voice quavered when she finally spoke. “I’m going to break that damned cane of his.”

“He’ll break it on me if I don’t, as he says, ‘Shape up to reach my maximum potential.’”

“We’ve got to get you out of here.”

“What are you talking about?” Nicholas said in a defensive tone.

“There’s no excuse for beating you. I know this isn’t the first time either. You try to hide from me by undressing in the dark, but I feel you flinch sometimes when I touch you. Now I understand why you whimper if you turn a certain way. It’s getting worse. Mother should have never allowed you to move in here. You should have stayed with us.”

“Alexander wouldn’t have allowed that. Anyway, I need to stay here.” He avoided her probing stare. “I’ve got a performance tomorrow night. The tour’s coming up and I need as much exposure in front of an audience as I can get before I go overseas. We’re under a lot of pressure to perfect the Debussy.”

Her voice raised an octave as she said, “He has no right to hit you. You need to leave that monster.”

“And go where? I have no money. He’s seen to that.”

“That can’t be. Your popularity grows each time you perform. And Mother said your fee last month with the Cleveland Orchestra was fifteen thousand dollars.”

Nicholas nodded in agreement.

“How many concerts did you have last year? Thirty?”

“Thirty-seven. I know that sounds impressive, but I don’t get anything but the allowance Alexander gives me, and a little cash when I travel. Didn’t you notice when you went with me overseas those two times? Everything is taken care of in advance. We dine at the hotel restaurants where we stay, a driver is even provided. The promoter picks up anything else I need.”

“But we go out—”

“And you always pay.”

A look of dismay crossed Elaine’s face. “I don’t understand.”

“He rationalizes, Elaine. Why would I need money? I live here, eat here. All I do is practice and study. The car is all I have and it’s leased in his name. All my assets are frozen in trust until I turn twenty-one. ‘Invested for my future’ he says.”  Eight months from now. An eternity.

“You’re an adult. He can’t do that.”

“He’s the trustee. He can do whatever he wants.”

“I have money.”

“I can’t ask you to help me with that.” Sliding away from her touch, he went to the window. Blue light from the quarter moon’s glow bathed the three-tiered fountain in the circular drive below.

“What he’s doing isn’t right,” she muttered.

“What am I supposed to do if I leave? Get a job?”

“Keep performing. Why would that change?”

Nicholas snapped his attention back to her. “Without him? He wouldn’t allow it. He’d ruin me first.”

A passage from his father’s journal came to his mind, warning him of Alexander’s manipulation and devious ways. How could he explain to Elaine his mentor had an evil streak that roiled below the skin? No words would ever convey Nicholas’s thoughts. He returned to her, drawing her into his arms.

A sob caught in her throat. “Please come and stay with me and Mother. She would love it and we wouldn’t have to hide any more.”

“We can’t go public,” Nicholas snapped.

“Why not? We’re not doing anything wrong. We aren’t related. It shouldn’t matter that we love each other.”

“I agree, but it matters to him. It’s all about appearances with Alexander. No one knows he’s not really my uncle. He’s told everyone in the industry that my talent is inherited directly from him.” Nicholas sighed. “Anyway, I can’t just walk away. I’ve worked too hard.”

“And I love you too much to see him keep hurting you.”

“I’ll be all right.” Stroking her hair, he closed his eyes and breathed in her scent of gardenias and rosewater. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

“I think you’d better finish reading your father’s journal. Maybe he has some advice to offer.”

Nicholas nodded, having had the same thought. They held each other while the antique clock atop the mantel chimed eleven times. “We could go to the country house. If I play well tomorrow night he might let me stay away for a few days.”

“No one goes there this time of year, do they?” She pulled away to look at him, excitement rising in her voice.

He shook his head.

“Let’s do it. Right now.” She rushed to the walk-in closet, threw open the door and rifled through the contents of tuxedos, designer shirts, tailored jackets and an array of dress shoes and sneakers.

“What are you doing?”

“Packing. Where’s your duffel? The black leather one we found you in Prague.”

Nicholas joined her in the closet and took her hand that clutched the supple leather bag. “I can’t go now.”

“Why not? It’s the perfect plan. Everyone’s asleep. We’ll slip out and Uncle would never know.”

“No, we need to do this right. Otherwise he’ll be suspicious.”

She pushed him away and planted a hand on her hip. “Okay, when?”

“Tomorrow night. Right after my performance. It’s been booked for months. I’ve worked too hard to pull out. And it wouldn’t be right.”

“The consummate professional.”

“Of course. Always,” he said, reciting the phrase she often used.

She smiled, then rewarded him with a kiss. When he didn’t reciprocate with his usual eagerness, she pulled away. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? You look so sad.”

“I can’t stop thinking about my father’s journal.”

“Are you worried Alexander will be upset that you found it?”

“No. I don’t think I should tell him. I keep going back to what I read. It’s so . . . creepy. He wrote the journal a decade ago, but he mentions everything in the room, like nothing’s ever changed. And the warnings are things like what to look out for, and to be careful of Alexander. I think—” Elaine stiffened and he halted his words, recognizing the same fear he had felt after reading his father’s ominous passages.

“Go ahead, you can tell me,” she said, her voice quavering.

“I think Alexander murdered my father.”

She flinched, prompting him to wrap an arm around her. Tears welled in his eyes, her body wavered in a watery halo.

“He may have killed my mother, too.”

Deborah J Ledford is a three-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize. Her award-winning short stories appear in the print publications Arizona Literary Magazine, Forge Journal, Twisted Dreams Magazine, AnthologyBuilder, and two Red Coyote Press mystery anthologies. Her latest stories appear in the Gulf Coast Writers Association anthology “Sweet Tea and Afternoon Tales” and the Sisters in Crime anthology, “How Not to Survive the Holidays.” A flash fiction piece is presented via podcast at Sniplits.

 

Click here to buy:Staccato