LeGarde Mysteries Box Set, page 101
part #1 of LeGarde Mystery Series
“The lout!” Camille said, her face dark with anger. She slammed a fist into her palm. “How could he?”
“Indeed.” Oscar said. “And from the obituary column, there’s an article about a service held for Mrs. Mary Hill. One year had passed since her disappearance, and at the time she was considered likely to be dead.”
I sighed. “They were right.”
Oscar flashed a grim smile at me. “The service included a complete casket and headstone, in memory of the woman who was loved by her husband and children.”
Camille huffed.
Oscar closed the book and looked around at us. “So that explains why the empty coffin was buried. Guess the scoundrel wanted to close that chapter before he married one of the many young girls he was courting. He never got the chance, however, because it was reported here in the Goodland Sentinel that a jealous husband killed Dr. Hill three months later, in March of 1865. Isaac Rickmann found Dr. Hill and Mrs. Rickmann in an indelicate position, took his musket from the wall, and finally ended it.”
Camille shifted in her seat and sighed. “So, the good doctor was a sleaze ball after all. The rat. What a horrid man.” She got up and began to pace between the piano and the fireplace. “Do you think he was the only one who knew about the hidden rooms, besides Mary? I wonder if she was the only person in the county who helped the slaves.”
“Her husband had to know about her activities,” I said. “How could she have hidden slaves in his house without him knowing?”
Oscar nodded. “Makes sense.”
“So he probably knew about the hidden room in the church, too,” I added.
Camille stopped and put a hand on my shoulder. “The reverend must have been involved, too, since one of the rooms was right beneath his church.”
Oscar held one finger in the air and then flipped through his notes again. “Wait one minute. In the obituary column on the same day Mary disappeared, there's an entry about Reverend Styles’ accidental death. He fell from the steeple tower of the church while working on the bell ropes.”
“Ah ha!” Camille shouted. “That explains why she wasn't discovered.”
I leaned forward. “I wonder if the reverend was the only other person who knew about the room. Besides Mary and David, that is.”
Camille paced past me so fast the sheet music rustled and fell from the piano.
“Maybe so. Maybe the good reverend was pushed from that tower by the only person who had the most to gain from his death.”
All eyes were on my wife.
“Think about it! Dr. Hill was not only sleeping around, he also had plans to marry another woman shortly after Mary ‘disappeared.’ How could he be sure she and the young slave were never found?” Camille perched on the side of the couch and leaned toward Oscar. “He silenced the reverend.”
Millie clapped her hands together. “Oh dear. I think you’ve figured it out!”
Oscar put a finger to his chin. “Hmm. You may have something there. Perhaps he was pushed from the tower by the diabolical Dr. Hill.”
Chapter 59
A quiet atmosphere of final understanding and acceptance filled the room. I let my gaze wonder off into the distance, very disappointed in the good doctor. I'd wrongfully glorified him over the years when I imagined him and his family in our house. I’d pictured him coming up the drive with his black horse and buggy, digging in my garden, and eating wonderful feasts in our dining room. But Mary had deserved all the glory. I should have featured her in my musings from the very beginning.
Adam was the first to break the spell. He carefully handed Celeste to Freddie. My granddaughter was the picture of innocence, asleep in Freddie's arms. Her soft copper-colored hair lay in damp ringlets against her cherubic face. I glanced at my watch and was surprised to find that it was way past the children’s bedtime.
Oscar folded up his notebook, tucked it under his arm, and turned Millie’s wheelchair around.
“Thank you, Oscar,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
He smiled and nodded. Camille sat quietly on the arm of the couch, her thoughts apparently still mired in the nineteenth century. Oscar stopped beside her, leaned over, and whispered something that made her look up at him and smile. She whispered back, pecked him on the cheek, and squeezed Millie’s gnarled hands when rolled the wheelchair toward the kitchen door.
Freddie stretched her legs, shifting her sleeping child to her right shoulder. Adam leaned over and kissed her cheek. She smiled tenderly at him. “’Night, Adam. See you tomorrow?”
“You bet.” Adam backed toward the kitchen, unwilling to take his puppy dog eyes off Freddie. I watched him take his oh-so-reluctant leave, and realized there was no doubt about it: he’d fallen for her. Big time.
When the last car rolled out of the driveway, Freddie sighed. “Time for me to get these little ones to bed.”
She smoothed her fingers across Celeste's soft brow. The little girl stirred slightly, then slumped back on her mother’s shoulder.
At the mention of the dreaded word “bed” Johnny's head snapped around in concern. He had been wiggling his blue stuffed Eeyore in the air, teasing Marion. She crawled toward it, and he kept it just beyond her grasp. Each time she moved closer, he'd dance away from her, making her giggle and crawl after him.
“Johnny. Bedtime.”
He rushed to his mother’s side. “Can Opa play the moon song for us first? Pleeease?”
Freddie looked at her impish son and wagged her finger, trying to look stern. It was difficult for her since she habitually melted when presented with his angelic little boy face. “All right. Just this once. Then straight to bed.”
Siegfried had fallen asleep as well, with his arm tucked around Max’s neck. He woke and blinked his eyes in surprise. I stepped over him toward the piano bench and picked up the music that had fallen. He stood, waved goodnight, and ambled toward his apartment in the carriage house, rubbing his eyes like a somnolent child.
I sat down and began to play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, enjoying the stirring in my soul while my fingers moved from memory through the poignant, profoundly moving arpeggios.
Johnny abandoned Eeyore on the piano bench beside me and started to twirl in slow circles around the coffee table. Marion sat on the floor beside the wing chair, pulling herself to a standing position. Her chubby hands stroked the blue silk fabric covering the down-filled cushion. She took stock of the room from her new vantage point. Her face lit up when she spotted Eeyore on the piano bench. Boldly, she let go of the chair, tottering in limbo. She frowned in concentration and took a momentous first step.
Holding out both hands to stabilize herself, she almost toppled over, then steadied once more. She looked again with determination toward the toy. Freddie gestured frantically toward the child, encouraging us to watch her during this baby-milestone. With one final forward thrust, Marion suddenly pumped her legs three times and walked toward the piano, arms outstretched. She squealed and grabbed the blue donkey, clutching him to her chest just before she lowered herself carefully to the safety of the carpet. Burrowing her face in the soft fur, she popped her thumb in her mouth. Immediately, her eyes started to close.
I finished the piece and reached down to stroke the soft curls on the back of her neck. She looked at me through sleepy eyes, her thumb still stuck in her mouth.
“Good job, little pumpkin. Good job.”
I lifted baby and donkey to my shoulder. She sagged against me, snuggling into my neck. A sense of great peace settled in my heart.
Freddie led the way. “Come on, everyone. Time for bed.”
Camille followed her with Johnny’s hand in hers. We put the children to bed and fifteen minutes later, finally settled in our own bed. I picked up my latest novel, The Devil Can Wait by Marta Stephens. Flipping to my bookmark, I was anxious to find out what Detective Sam Harper would do next. But something niggled at my brain.
“Honey?” I asked. “What did Oscar whisper to you on his way out?”
She slid across the bed to my side, removed my reading glasses, and chuckled. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She tickled my neck and wiggled closer. My book dropped to the floor.
“No. Really. What did he say?”
Camille rested her head on my chest and played with the buttons on my pajama top. “Okay. I’ll tell you. He said not to be too discouraged. That not all men are as horrible as Dr. Hill.”
I craned my head to see the expression on her face. A sweet smile played on her lips.
“And? What did you say to that, hmm?”
“I told him I’d met a few men in my life who reminded me of the good doctor.”
“What?” I started to sit up.
“And,” she added quickly, pulling me back down, “that I had one now who seemed to be breaking the mold.”
“Yeah?” I said. “Breaking the mold?”
“Yes,” she said, reaching over me to turn off the light. “Now stop your talking, Professor. You’re interfering with my own nefarious plans.”
I kissed her and obeyed.
– The End –
Afterword
FireSong brings Gus LeGarde and his family back to the lush rolling hills of East Goodland, New York. After whisking him back in time to Maine in 1964 in Tremolo, and putting him through hell and back in Mazurka, where he chased all over Europe, it was time to return home to the beautiful ridge that overlooks the Genesee Valley.
Double Forté, Upstaged, and FireSong are both set in Gus’s hometown of East Goodland, a town very much like my own. Some street names are changed, and Gus’s nearby historic college town of Conaroga exists under a different name. But most of what I describe in the series mirrors the actual landscape and even some of the events that have occurred in Livingston County, New York.
The themes that run throughout FireSong merge my past with Gus’s present. The Underground Railroad always fascinated me. I grew up in an eighteenth century colonial with six fireplaces and very crooked lines. I was always convinced there was a secret room behind our fireplace. I took the measurements, mapped it out, and presented my case to my parents. Of course, I was only twelve. They helped me drill the holes in the back of the closet. Alas, we didn’t find a secret room. But we couldn’t really see too well through that little hole. I just wanted to drill a few more. Or a bigger one. Or cut out a section…But sadly, my parents declined. I never found out what was behind that wall. I figured it was time to get a glimpse into that mystery, and let Gus go for it in our parallel universe.
The situation with the salt mine and the Native American burial grounds actually happened. I’ve changed the name of the company to protect them. The collapsed mine was real, as were the wells that ran dry and those that burned with fire. And I make no judgment on either issue. We need salt on our snowy roads to stay safe. And it’s a good thing to respect ancient burial grounds. Complicated issues.
The ghostly songs and extensive tunnels that snake from the church to the prison and back were all figments of my own imagination. Of course, I’ve never really been down in the bowels of the earth beneath our property, so who knows what lies beneath?
My dear Max, Gus’s canine best friend, passed away in 2007. It was especially difficult revisiting the chapter where Max is hit by the panel van when I was editing this book. But of course, you know by now that I’ll never kill off a favorite in this series—I’m too soft-hearted for that. My wife Dale and I have barely started to get over the loss of our dear friend Max, however, we have been blessed with a Cavipoo named Balto who is doing his best to become Max’s successor. And now he’s been joined by a little Bichon-Cavalier King Charles Spaniel mix named Amber, who follows him around with big brown eyes. She’s definitely in love. They both sleep on our bed at night. They’re a great pair, adore each other, and provide wonderful therapy when times get tough.
And last but certainly not least, Gus’s church is loosely based on a wonderful small country church in our area that we attended for many years. I loved this church and the people in it. But all characters I’ve created are unique and none of them represent the actual members of the congregation. The Reverend Nahum Hardina is fictitious—but his two sermons were hijacked from Reverend Thomas A. LeBeau, who graciously allowed me to use them. Tom is a rare and talented minister who’s been moved to a new congregation now, but I know he is still inspiring his flock to be the best people they can on this earth.
In upstate New York we are exceptionally lucky. Rarely does even a “mini-tornado” touch down. I’ve never seen a forest fire. We don’t worry about earthquakes or hurricanes or mudslides or floods. Usually. But I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if nature really went crazy one summer. And thus, FireSong was born.
I hope you enjoyed this romp through my parallel universe. Many more Gus LeGarde books are in the queue and waiting to be released. You can stay tuned to these and my other mystery series at the www.lazarbooks.com.
What’s Next?
If you enjoyed this story, you might like the other books in the LeGarde Mystery series, many of which are set in the same locale with the same characters. (see complete book list following this).
If you are curious about a glimpse into Gus’s youth, you might like to read the prequels, Tremolo: cry of the loon, Don’t Let the Wind Catch You, Voodoo Summer, or any of the “adult Gus” books in the series where you can join him as a father and grandfather in multiple adventures throughout the Genesee Valley. And if you enjoy the style of these books, check out The Green Marble Mystery series or the author’s romantic suspense stories at http://www.lazarbooks.com.
Please consider hopping over to Amazon to leave a short review if you enjoyed the book!
- Aaron Paul Lazar
Following is an excerpt from Don’t Let the Wind Catch You, available on Amazon, Barnes&Noble, etc. as an eBook. It is also available in print and audiobook.
Chapter One
We crept toward the old shack on our bellies, crab-crawling over moss and oak leaves. Elsbeth breathed softly to my left, just out of sight. Siegfried took the lead, several feet ahead of me. Behind us, the horses stood tethered to maple saplings; they munched steadily on the sweet leaves with a rhythmic crunching sound, their tails swishing against the sting of deerflies.
"Gus?" Elsbeth's whisper glanced off the air. "Do you think anyone lives here?"
I pressed a finger to my lips. "Shh. I think I heard something." I was glad I'd left Shadow at home. That little beagle would've betrayed us, running all over the woods baying at every new scent he found.
Siegfried raised a hand, signaling us to stop. He'd heard it, too. It was a keening sound, a high-pitched wail that was speech but not speech, closer to song, but with no melody I recognized.
Ice crawled down my spine and tingled in my toes. My heart pounded against the soft earth beneath me. I chanced a look at Elsbeth, whose eyes had gone wide with what some people might think was fear. But I knew better. Excitement lurked behind those big brown eyes. She didn't scare easily now that she was eleven.
Wood smoke escaped the chimney in a lazy tendril, spreading into gray softness that filled the air with the aroma of campfires on cold winter mornings. Whoever lived inside this remote, ramshackle cabin must have just started a cooking fire, for the scent of wood smoke was soon followed by the clanging of a cast iron pan and the distinctive scent of bacon.
Siegfried glanced back at us, motioning toward a tumbled-down stone wall. He hopped to his feet and scrambled toward the cabin, chest tucked tightly to his knees. Although I was a full year older than the twins, I often let Siegfried lead. He was the one with the compass and the navigational skills, and took us on excursions into the forests behind the Ambuscade.
While we lay on our bellies watching the cabin, I couldn't help but remember snatches of Mrs. Wilson's history lessons last year. Even though we'd often played around the Ambuscade Monument, which was back in the field we'd just crossed, I really hadn't appreciated the importance of the area until she started telling us the story.
She said Washington sent John Sullivan and his men to fight for the settlers in 1779. They'd attacked the Indians, and had burned villages, cut down apple orchards, and destroyed families. It had been a real slaughter.
But it was hard to know who to root for, because some of Sullivan's men had been later ambushed by British troops and some Iroquois Indians. Fifteen men were massacred very close to where we lay. Two of the officers, Boyd and Parker, were captured and tortured in Little Beard's village in a town we now know as Cuylerville.
A plaque stands there today, marking the spot where they were tortured. Now, in 1965–a hundred and eighty-six years later–I stared at it in fascination whenever my father drove us past it on the way to Letchworth State Park.
Siegfried poked my side and pointed to the house, where a shadow crossed the window. I nodded and watched.
Elsbeth lay snug against me behind the stone wall. She nudged me in the ribs and whispered so close to my ear it tickled. "Someone's in there!"
A one-sided conversation had started up inside the cabin. I strained to hear, trying to calm the heartbeat in my ears that pounded over the words I couldn't make out.
I listened to the deep male voice. Gruff and playful, he seemed to be discussing plans for the day. But no one answered him.
I scanned the area. Siegfried noticed and followed my gaze. No telephone poles or wires. No electricity. Unless he had one of those walkie-talkies like they used in the war, he must be talking to a mute person or to a very soft-spoken person.
I noticed several cracked windows and wondered why the man inside hadn't fixed them. The front door looked solid, made from rough planks, but the roof dipped and waved near the chimney. I imagined when it rained it probably dripped from the ceiling into buckets. Globs of tar and different colored shingles plastered the roof in various spots. A beat-up Ford pickup was parked under the trees in the back.
