LeGarde Mysteries Box Set, page 77
part #1 of LeGarde Mystery Series
LEGARDE MYSTERIES – in order of chronology
TREMOLO: CRY OF THE LOON
DON’T LET THE WIND CATCH YOU
VOODOO SUMMER
SPIRIT ME AWAY
DOUBLE FORTÉ
UPSTAGED
MAZURKA
FIRESONG
THE LIAR’S GALLERY
UNDER THE ICE
LADY BLUES
GREEN MARBLE MYSTERIES
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF BILLY MOORE (formerly Healey’s Cave)
TERROR COMES KNOCKING
FOR KEEPS
TALL PINES MYSTERIES
FOR THE BIRDS
ESSENTIALLY YOURS
SANCTUARY
BETRAYAL
PAINES CREEK BEACH, love stories
THE SEACREST
THE SEACROFT
THE SEADOG
BITTERSWEET HOLLOW, romantic suspense
DEVIL’S LAKE
DEVIL’S CREEK
DEVIL’S SPRING
WRITING GUIDES
WRITE LIKE THE WIND, volume 1
WRITE LIKE THE WIND, volume 2
WRITE LIKE THE WIND, volume 3
Aaron Lazar’s Book Awards
Devil’s Lake
2015 Finalist Readers’ Favorites Awards
2015 Semi-finalist in Kindle Book Review Awards
The Seacrest
2015 Semi-finalist in Kindle Book Review Awards
2014 Best Beach Book Festival WINNER, Romance category
2013 ForeWord Book Awards, Romance, FINALIST
Double Forté
2012 ForeWord BOTYA, Mystery, FINALIST
Tremolo: cry of the loon –
2013 Eric Hoffer Book Awards: Grand Prize Short List
2013 Eric Hoffer Book Awards: Honorable Mention, Eric Hoffer Legacy Fiction
2011 Global eBook Award Finalist in Historical Fiction Contemporary
2011 Preditors & Editors Readers Choice Award – 2nd place Mystery
2008 Yolanda Renée's Top Ten Books
2008 MYSHELF Top Ten Reads
For the Birds
2011 ForeWord Book Awards, FINALIST in Mystery
2012 Carolyn Howard-Johnson's Top 10 Reads
Essentially Yours
2013 EPIC Book Awards, FINALIST in Suspense
2013 Eric Hoffer Da Vinci Eye Award Finalist
The Disappearance of Billy Moore (formerly Healey’s Cave)
2012 EPIC Book Awards WINNER Best Paranormal
2011 Eric Hoffer Book Award, WINNER Best Book in Commercial Fiction
2011 Finalist for Allbooks Review Editor's Choice
2011 Winner of Carolyn Howard Johnson's 9th Annual Noble (not Noble!) Prize for Literature
2011 Finalists for Global EBook Awards
Terror Comes Knocking
2013 Global Ebook Awards, Paranormal – Bronze
For Keeps
2013 Semi Finalist in Kindle Book Review Book Awards, Mystery Category
Spirit Me Away
2014 AuthorsdB book cover contest, Silver medal.
Under the Ice
2015 Finalist in AuthorsdB Cover Award
Websites
www.lazarbooks.com
www.murderby4.blogspot.com
www.aaronlazar.blogspot.com
Contact
You may contact the author via email at author@lazarbooks.com.
Connect with Aaron Lazar:
Goodreads
Amazon Author Page
Google+
FireSong: LeGarde Mysteries, #4
Thank you for picking up FireSong.
Book Series by Aaron Paul Lazar
LEGARDE MYSTERIES (country mysteries set in the Finger Lakes)
GREEN MARBLE MYSTERIES (mysteries with time travel and a ghost)
TALL PINES MYSTERIES (sensual women’s mysteries set in the Adirondacks)
PAINES CREEK BEACH SERIES (love stories by the sea)
BITTERSWEET HOLLOW SERIES (romantic suspense involving kidnapping)
Free Book
Devil’s Lake
Bittersweet Hollow, book 1
Two years ago, Portia Lamont disappeared from a small town in Vermont, devastating her parents and sister, who spent every waking hour searching for her. When she suddenly shows up on their horse farm in a stolen truck with a little mutt on her lap, they want to know what happened. Was she taken? Or did she run away?
2015 Finalist Readers’ Favorites Awards
2015 Semi-finalist in Kindle Book Review Awards
Sign up for Free eBook at the author’s website:
www.lazarbooks.com
Reviews
You’re about to dive into FireSong, book 4 in LeGarde Mysteries. If you enjoy it, I hope you’ll consider leaving a review on Amazon. It doesn’t have to be long or fancy—just a few lines about what you liked best or how the book made you feel is perfectly fine.
Thanks in advance for taking a few minutes to write a short review!
Dedication
To my grandchildren, Julian, Gordon, Isabella, Christopher, Luke, and Joey. May you enjoy the delights of playing outdoors just like Gus and his friends, without the villains, of course. I love you all dearly.
- Papa
Chapter 1
It hadn’t rained in weeks. Cornfields stretched withered leaves to the heavens, our lawn crunched underfoot, and the ponds on our hill had dropped four feet in a month.
We sat in the stifling sanctuary, waiting for Reverend Hardina to begin the Sunday service. I was already sweating, and my shirt stuck to the back of the old wooden bench, making ungodly ripping sounds when I leaned forward to peel it away from the sticky varnish. The Building and Grounds committee refinished six pews last weekend, but for some reason they’d mixed the stuff wrong, because it still wasn’t completely dry.
Outside, a storm raged. It had come in fast, with menacing black clouds rolling fast over the eastern ridge of the Genesee Valley. We’d left the house a half hour ago, but as I watched the pine branches slapping against the stain glass windows, I wondered how wise I’d been to push through the rising winds and rain.
Camille nudged me and pointed to the window. “Gus, look.”
Outside, dirt devils skittered across the parking lot like mini-tornadoes.
I leaned sideways to get a better look. “Whoa.”
She slid her arm through mine. “What’s going on out there?”
“It looks like little cyclones. Weird, huh?”
She nodded. “Really weird.”
My grandson, Johnny, caught sight of the whirling dust balls and shrieked at the top of his voice. “Dorothy!” Leaping up onto the seat. “Toto!”
We’d been trying to keep him quiet for the past few minutes, and it was never easy, especially in church.
“Dorothy!” he shrieked again.
I knew he was talking about The Wizard of Oz, but Mrs. Dorothy Mason, who sat behind us, apparently didn’t.
“It’s not polite to call your elders by their first name, sonny.” Her voice was sweet on the surface, but her tone implied someone didn’t raise this boy right.
Before I could explain, the lights flickered, and in a sudden gush, hail clattered on the roof.
The congregation froze, listening to the tin ceiling rattle under the assault.
Behind the pulpit, Reverend Nahum Hardina shrugged and smiled, smoothing his wispy gray hair. “Maybe the Lord wants to deliver his own sermon this morning.”
A titter ran through the crowd. A few stragglers hurried in, rustled to their family pews, and chatted with their neighbors about the wild winds.
I wiped beads of moisture from my forehead and fanned myself with the church program. It sagged in my hands.
While the reverend prepared his books and props for the sermon, Johnny, almost three now, squirmed beside me. He blew his forelock in boredom, then pushed his nose into a pig snout, snorting so loud everyone turned to stare.
With an embarrassed laugh, I patted his knee. “Buddy. Come on, now.”
The reverend finally ascended to the pulpit and smiled at the congregation. “Welcome, brothers and sisters.”
Johnny squealed and snorted again.
I cringed and whispered apologies to anyone who cared to listen, but the noise of the storm washed my words away. Before I could catch him, my grandson flung his arms over the back of the pew and gawked at Dorothy Mason.
A grin appeared on his angelic face and he shouted, “Your hair is blue!”
A sigh escaped her lips. “It’s not polite to—”
In a blink, he pitched one leg over the backrest and almost toppled onto her. Sweating, I stood and locked my arms around the struggling boy to lift him back to his seat.
His big brown eyes glinted with hints of mischievous deeds to come.
I settled him on his seat. “Sit.”
My words must have come out sterner than I intended, for he suddenly pouted and slumped against me.
Reverend Hardina shot me a glance of empathy, raising his voice over the wail of the wind. “And now, let us turn to the quiet temple deep in our hearts. Prepare to worship the Lord from this region of inner peace. May the radiance of the Lord flow into your hearts and minds as our acolyte comes forward to light the candles.”
Johnny recovered in a flash, hopping to his knees and staring outside. “Is it night time, Opa?”
“No, pal.” I glanced toward the window and felt a prickle of concern. Daylight had indeed disappeared. “It’s just a storm, honey. Don’t worry.”
He quickly lost interest and turned his palm up, wiggling his fingers for candy. “Opa? Can I have another one?”
I unwrapped a peppermint Lifesaver and pushed it into his sticky hand, wondering if the roll would last until Sunday school. He popped it in his mouth and settled down.
Camille pressed close to me. Through the fabric of her yellow sundress, I sensed her skin’s warmth and drank in the scent of her freshly washed hair. Memories of passion from the previous night skated across my mind’s eye. Soft skin. Sweet perspiration. A mew-like cry that meant I’d done something right.
Heat rose in me accompanied by totally inappropriate stirrings of desire.
I had to stop thinking like this.
For goodness sakes, man. You’re in church.
I tried to refocus and stared at the wart on the balding head in the pew in front of me.
That did it.
My wife’s dark curls tumbled forward when she bowed her head to pray. I reached for her hand and bowed my head as well, rubbing my thumb across her wedding band. We’d been married last May in this very church, but with all that happened to us since then, it seemed like ten lifetimes had passed.
I glanced up when Camille’s daughter passed us on her way to the pulpit.
Shelby waved a long brass candle lighter over the wicks until they sputtered and caught.
Johnny sucked on his Lifesaver, drumming his feet against the pew.
I touched the back of his hand in gentle warning. “Shush, now. Be still, buddy.”
He scrunched his face in protest, and then turned to rummage in his little backpack for a toy. Brandishing a black police car, he raced it up my arm and onto my shoulder. “Vroom, vroom!”
Although the storm still wailed outside, my grandson’s squeals made a few heads turn in our direction.
I ignored Elliot Newman’s glare, clamping down on the urge to burst into hysterical laughter. Sliding my arm around Johnny’s shoulders, I pointed to Shelby. “Johnny, look. There’s Shelby. Wave to her.”
He waved like a flagman at the speedway and shouted her name. She started to laugh, but caught herself and wiggled her fingers at him instead. Extinguishing the lighter, she hung it on the side of the pulpit and rejoined us, sliding into the pew beside her mother.
“Shall we rise and sing the opening hymn? Our first selection is on page one forty-five.”
A rustle filled the church when the parishioners reached for their hymnals.
Reverend Hardina nodded to Miss Lillian Phillips, who did her best to play the introduction for “Morning Has Broken” on the out-of-tune piano. She winced with every cracked note, but soldiered on with stoic determination.
The organ stood silent, a victim of the church’s sad state of affairs. Badly in need of an overhaul, it squeaked out its last note years ago. Now it lingered on top of the repair list.
The congregation clunked and shuffled to their feet. As one, they opened their hymnals and began to sing.
The storm worsened and the wind whipped tree branches harder. In the churchyard beyond the window, a pair of young elm trees bent over so far I thought they’d snap.
We managed our way through the first verse in spite of the gale’s fury. But when the second stanza began, the wail rose to a screech, drowning our voices. A crack exploded in the churchyard. Everyone swiveled in their pews and exchanged worried glances. It had sounded like a tree limb had fallen in the parking area. I prayed it hadn’t landed on my new Toyota Sequoia.
For a moment, there was a lull in the wind. Lillian started playing again, and when we sang the last verse, sweet rain splashed against the windows. A buzz of satisfaction filled the air; everyone chattered and sighed in relief. The shriveled corn stalks would be quenched—at least for today—and hopefully the rain would prevent a rash of failed crops across the Genesee Valley.
We finished the hymn and took our seats. Reverend Hardina stepped from the pulpit and reached for a bucket of props for his children’s message. Johnny took a red crayon from his backpack. I gave him my church bulletin to scribble on, but before he could attempt to draw the wheels on a tractor—his favorite image—the crayon slipped from his fingers and rolled under the pew in front of us. I tried to nudge it back with my shoe, but Johnny slithered to the floor and disappeared.
His head popped up. Covered in fine dust, he clambered back onto the seat and grinned. “I got it, Opa.”
I whispered to him with one finger over my lips. “That’s good. But try to be quiet, now, honey. Just a few more minutes and you can go to Sunday school.”
“Okay.” He drew a waxy red circle on the paper, supporting it with my hymnal.
The reverend arranged a jump rope, star-shaped candle, and a tomato on the front table. I wondered what kind of message he had planned for the children with his odd assortment of items.
Nahum’s eyes sparkled. “And now, would you youngsters please join me up front for the children’s—”
Siegfried burst through the vestibule doors to the right of the pulpit, blue eyes flared in panic. He breathed hard, and stared straight at me.
The reverend swiveled toward him. “Siegfried, what is it?”
My deceased first wife’s brother answered in his strong German accent. “Oscar Stone called. He says there is a twister coming up the hill. A big one.” His massive hands shot out in opposite directions, flapping in the air.
We sat in stunned silence.
The Reverend shot a puzzled glance at Siegfried, who shouted to be heard above the storm.
“We should go where it is safe, Ja?”
Acid slid from my stomach to my throat. A tornado? Although my brain couldn’t process the facts, I jumped up and corralled my family, heading for the door where Siegfried stood. “Downstairs,” I said.
The pastor hurried down from the pulpit and waved his arms in an attempt to gather his flock. “Okay, everyone, follow Siegfried. Down to the basement. To the common room. The walls are strong there. Hurry!”
I got my family situated on the safest wall, then went back to help the others.
Pushing through the door, they scrambled down the stairs into the basement. Most were elderly, and with flushed cheeks and terror in their eyes, they held to the railings and moved as fast as they could manage. Lillian Phillips stumbled on the last step.
I helped her up. “You okay, Lil?”
She stopped short and turned back toward the sanctuary. Her eyes popped in panic. “My pocketbook! I left it by the piano. My medication’s in there.”
I spun and ran back up the steps. “I’ll get it. Go down with the others.”
Through the double doors I ran, back into the sanctuary. I glanced outside and saw black. At ten thirty in the morning. Debris eddied outside, spinning at a frightening pitch.
I found Lillian’s purse beside the piano and snagged it, racing down the aisle and stairs to the cellar with it banging against my leg. When I reached her side, she accepted it with grateful tears.
A sea of confused and cowering people looked to Reverend Hardina for guidance. He summoned his fire and brimstone voice. “My dear people! We must be calm and trust the Almighty will protect us.”
A boom of thunder shook the walls, and the Reverend dove to the floor. “Everyone get down. Take cover.”
The wind increased to a deafening roar.
Siegfried grabbed Johnny and Shelby and slid beneath a stout table, holding them close. Johnny whimpered and plastered himself against Siegfried’s chest. I held my wife tight, leaning back against the wall beside them. She reached over to hold Shelby’s hand. On the other end of the table, Dorothy Mason’s blue hair poked out, reminding me of a figurehead on the bow of a ship.
My mind played its usual tricks, saying goofy things to me. Was she the symbol of some dreaded doomsday ship? Headed for a bizarre netherworld where Wizard-of-Oz tornadoes tore across a tiny farming community in upstate New York?
I pulled Camille closer and backed nearer to the cement wall, trying to still my thumping heart.
Then—in the safest place I knew on earth—all hell broke loose.
