Romantic Road

by Blair McDowell

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Romantic Road

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “Where is it? Just tell us where it is and you won’t get hurt.” The taller man loomed over her, his face expressionless, a mask.

  “Where is what? What are you talking about? Who are you?” Lacy began to be annoyed. That was better than being scared. “Can I see your badges again?”

  The second man stared hard at her though dead-looking flat grey eyes. “Mrs. Telchev”—his voice was low and menacing—“we mean you no harm. But you must tell us where your husband hid his manuscript.”

  They knew her name? Icy tentacles slipped down Lacy’s back. She shook her head. “What manuscript? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  At that moment the red-and-white lights of a state police vehicle rounded the curve coming toward them. Seeing the blocked road, it stopped. Two uniformed officers got out and approached the parked cars.

  “You’re blocking the road. What’s the trouble here?”

  The taller man spoke. “No trouble, Officer. Sorry about the way we’re parked. I’ll move the car immediately. The lady was pulled over here, and we just stopped to see if she needed help.”

  He flipped open his wallet and showed the officers the same ID he’d shown Lacy.

  It seemed to mean something to the policemen.

  Lacy opened her mouth to say something and then thought better of it. What could she tell the police? These men wanted a manuscript from her, but she didn’t know where it was? Or what it was about? Or even if it existed? That it involved her dead husband? No. She wouldn’t say anything. Not until she knew.

  Romantic Road

  by

  Blair McDowell

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Romantic Road

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Lois Choksy

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Crimson Rose Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-727-6

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-728-3

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my indefatigable traveling companion,

  Jeanette Panagapka,

  who helped me explore all the sites and locations

  used in this book.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to soprano Donna Ellen, of the Vienna Opera, for the private backstage tour she gave me of that venerable opera house and for her answers to my many questions as they arose in the course of writing this novel.

  Thanks also to my dear Hungarian friends, the Czeller family, in whose home in Budapest and vineyard and wine cave on Lake Balaton I have been welcomed as a guest many times.

  To all the innkeepers and hotel concierges and shopkeepers and waiters who so willingly answered my endless and tiresome questions about their cities and towns, thank you.

  I am indebted to Jeanette Panagapka for her encouragement and reading and rereading of this book before I submitted it for publication, and to Sherry Royal for her on-going help in marketing.

  Finally, I wish to express my gratitude to my wonderful Wild Rose editor, Johanna Melaragno, whose insightful suggestions made Romantic Road a much better book, and to Diana Carlile for her great cover design.

  Prologue

  The day was an unrelenting grey. Trees not yet in leaf on this late March morning stood framed as stark skeletons against the backdrop of the surrounding city. The rain, though hardly more than a mist, was cold and penetrating.

  Three people huddled close together under one large black umbrella. Jane, her best friend, wept softly, clinging to Lacy, whose husband Igor was about to be lowered into the earth. Igor’s attorney, Richard, was stony faced. Lacy held herself rigid, straight and tall. She wanted to cry, to feel something, anything, but somehow the tears just would not come. There was a hollowness deep inside her that left her unable to cry, unable to feel. Odd. She had cried so frequently during these last two years. But what was left to cry for? Igor was gone, irretrievably lost. There would never be a chance to make things right between them now. Her sense of desolation was beyond tears.

  In keeping with Russian Orthodox tradition, the grave site faced east. The coffin was suspended over the open grave, ready to be lowered at the signal.

  Lacy listened without really hearing, as the priest, dressed in black cassock with a large gold cross on a heavy chain around his neck, intoned the words of the burial service. Numbly she fixed her eyes on the long black scarf covering his traditional, high cylindrical hat as it fluttered in the wind. He uttered the last prayer of the service, “Zemle rosztupysia.” Be open, oh earth, and receive the body which has been created out of you. He took a hand full of soil and sprinkled it on the coffin in the shape of a cross.

  Lacy stepped forward and placed a single long-stemmed purple iris on the coffin. Igor had loved irises. Jane and Richard followed, each in turn placing an iris on his casket.

  Stepping back, Lacy nodded. She watched as the coffin was lowered slowly into its final resting place, and two workmen who had been standing in the background began to shovel the earth over it.

  Lacy shivered as she heard the first clods strike the coffin. Taking a deep breath, she approached the priest and spoke to him in Russian. “Thank you, Father Zacchaeus. It was important to Igor that he be given a Russian Orthodox burial.”

  The priest nodded. “I understand. In the end, we all return to our roots.” He placed a hand gently on her arm. “Bless you, my child.”

  Richard appeared at her side and putting his arm around her shoulders, led her away as the grave was closed. Jane was waiting in the limousine.

  At the car, Lacy turned to look one last time at the grave. Two rather ominous-looking men dressed in dark raincoats, with hats pulled low over their brows, stood under a clump of trees nearby. They appeared to have been observing the graveside service. Who were they? If they had known Igor, wouldn’t they have spoken to her? As she stared at them, they turned and left.

  Chapter One

  Lacy stood on the porch of their house in the Berkshires breathing in the clear air with its scent of evergreens. Being here these last two weeks had given her a sense of peace she hadn’t experienced in a very long time. She had done the right thing, coming here as soon as the funeral was over.

  She smiled as she remembered the way Igor always referred t
o this place somewhat disparagingly as “the cabin.” In truth, it was a spacious two-story log home on three acres of wooded hillside overlooking the river. She sat down in one of the old-fashioned Boston rockers and moved gently back and forth. Whenever they were in residence, she and Igor had taken their morning tea here where they could watch the deer fearlessly grazing their way across the lawn.

  Lacy loved it, and she’d enjoyed her weeks of solitude here. She’d stayed longer than she intended, but she was ready to get back to the city now. It was time to get her life back in order. Besides, she had an appointment with their attorney, Richard, tomorrow.

  She glanced at her watch. Four o’clock. If she left now she’d be home before midnight. Then she could get an early start tomorrow morning. She was pretty sure she’d be welcomed back at her old job at the United Nations, but there were forms to fill out, procedures to go through. Sighing, she got up and went into the house and began the ritual of closing it up. Water shut off, valve on the propane tank closed, fridge emptied. Shutters all closed and bolted.

  Finally, she locked the front door behind her and stood looking one last time at the swift flowing river, heavy from spring rains. It would be so easy just to stay here forever. But she needed to get back to New York. Back to work. For her own good she wanted to be doing something more than drifting. She couldn’t go on like this, half alive.

  She shivered. There was a chill in the air. It was mid-April, but in these mountains spring came late. She picked up her duffel bag and threw it into the back seat of the Austin Mini Igor had given her for her twenty-third birthday. Living in the city, she rarely drove it, but they’d always used it when they came to the cabin. She headed down the long drive to the winding country road.

  ****

  She’d been driving for about an hour in the increasing dusk when a car came up close behind her blinking his high beams, almost blinding her. She flipped her rearview mirror to the night position, but the bright lights continued to reflect in her side view mirror. Irritated, she peered at the road ahead. There were dense woods on one side, a sharp drop off on the other, and a long curve. No place to pull over and let him past. She glanced at the speedometer. Sixty-five, ten miles above the speed limit on this two lane road. What was the matter with him? She could do nothing for the moment. He’d just have to be patient until she could let him pass safely.

  Suddenly, the black sedan hurtled around her and swerved to a halt in front of her, blocking the road.

  “God dammit!” Lacy stood on her brakes, swerved, and almost plowed into him. Fortunately, her brakes were good and her reaction time better. Even so, she was sure the Mini had left rubber on the road. She sat in her car, somewhere between furious and shaking, trying to slow her hammering heart.

  Two men got out of the vehicle and walked toward her. They were ordinary looking men, dressed in dark raincoats, like those two at the funeral. They didn’t look particularly threatening. So why was she suddenly so frightened?

  One pulled out a wallet and flipped it open to some kind of badge. Police? Lacy thought. What did they want of her?

  “Open the door and step out of the car, miss.”

  Trying to control her rapid breathing, her hands clenched, Lacy did as she was told.

  “Where is it? Just tell us where it is, and you won’t get hurt.” The taller man loomed over her, his face an expressionless mask.

  “Where is what? What are you talking about? Who are you?” Lacy stood rigid, her mind whirling. She was frightened, but she mustn’t let it show because she sensed these men wanted to frighten her. No. She wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. In a deliberately brisk tone of voice that she hoped conveyed merely annoyance, she said, “May I see your badges again?”

  The second man stared hard at her though dead looking, flat grey eyes. “Mrs. Telchev”—his voice was low and menacing—“we mean you no harm. But you must tell us where your husband hid his manuscript.”

  They knew her name? Icy tentacles of fear slipped down Lacy’s back. She shook her head. “What manuscript? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  At that moment, a state police vehicle rounded the curve coming toward them. Seeing the blocked road, it pulled over, its red-and-white lights flashing. Two uniformed officers got out and approached the parked cars.

  “You’re blocking the road. What’s the trouble here?”

  The taller man spoke. “No trouble, officer. Sorry about the way we’re parked. I’ll move the car immediately. The lady was pulled over here, and we just stopped to see if she needed help.”

  He flipped open his wallet and showed the officers the same ID he’d shown Lacy.

  Lacy watched as the policeman took the proffered wallet and studied it quietly. Then he passed it on to his partner, who nodded and handed it back to its owner. It appeared to mean something to the policemen.

  Lacy opened her mouth to speak and then thought better of it. What could she tell the police? That these men had recklessly forced her off the road because they wanted a manuscript? That she didn’t know where the manuscript was? Or what it was about? Only that it was her dead husband’s work? No. She wouldn’t say anything. Not until she knew more.

  The younger policeman held out his hand. “We’ll need to see your license and registration, ma’am.”

  “Of course.”

  As Lacy was fishing in her purse and her glove compartment, she heard the taller man speak to the officers. “We’ll be on our way, since we’re not needed here.”

  Lacy glanced up to see the older officer look sharply at them, but then he merely nodded. With that, the men who’d stopped her walked back to their car. They drove off at a sedate speed in the direction from which Lacy had come.

  The police were letting them go? Lacy was somewhere between relieved and incensed. How could they just let them just walk away? They’d accosted her. They’d threatened her... But she couldn’t tell the police about that without explaining about Igor’s new manuscript. And how could she explain about the manuscript when Igor had told her nothing about it? She knew he’d been working on a new book, but he’d gone to great lengths to keep its subject secret, even from her.

  “You all right, ma’am?” the older officer asked. “You look pale.”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. ”

  Back in the patrol car the first officer checked out her papers before returning them to her. “Everything seems to be in order here. You sure you’re okay to drive, Mrs. Telchev?”

  “I’m quite sure, thank you.”

  The officers appeared puzzled by the situation, but it seemed no laws had been broken.

  Under the scrutiny of the two officers, she got back into her car and continued on her way.

  By the time she pulled into the town of Great Barrington, she was shaking. The encounter on the road had upset her more than she’d realized.

  She remembered staying in this town several times with Igor. What was the name of the place? The Wainwright Inn. Perhaps they’d have a room for her for the night. She could continue on to New York in the morning.

  The innkeeper greeted her graciously. “Of course, Mrs. Telchev. I remember your husband well. I’ve read all his books. I’m so sorry to hear of his passing.”

  Lacy found herself ensconced in a cozy warm room under the eaves. Everything about the room spoke comfort and security. She fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  ****

  The next morning, the frightening events of the evening before seemed unreal, as if they’d happened in a dream, less ominous by the light of day. Surely there must have been some mistake. Ordinary people like her weren’t involved in this kind of melodrama. It was like a scene out of a movie or late night TV.

  But who were those two men who stopped her? They appeared to have some kind of official standing, if the reaction of the highway police was anything to go by. And what did they want? A manuscript of Igor’s? He had been working on a new book when he died. That was nothing unusual. Igor
was always working on a new book. But in the months before his death he’d been writing day and night, compulsively on this one. What could he have been writing about to stir up such a hornet’s nest?

  After a light breakfast at the inn, Lacy continued on her way back to New York, and at noon she pulled up at the entrance to her Park Avenue address.

  The doorman opened the car door, took her bag, and saw her to the elevator. “I’ll see to the car,” he said. “We were all so sorry about Mr. Telchev. He was a real gentleman.”

  “Yes, he was. Thank you, John.”

  She pushed the button for the eleventh floor. There was only one other apartment on that floor, and the elevator opened to a small foyer between the two. As Lacy stepped out of the lift, she glanced at her neighbor’s door. They were away in Florida for the winter.

  She fished her keys out of her purse and opened the door to a pitiful sound, halfway between a meow and a howl. She nearly tripped over the large Burmese cat weaving between her legs. Taking off her raincoat and throwing it on the antique bench in the hallway, Lacy reached down and picked up her cat, Igor’s cat. “I know, Sica. I miss him, too.” She rubbed her face in the cat’s soft fur.

  The sable-colored feline nestled into her shoulder with a deep rumbling purr.

  Cuddling the cat, Lacy went through to the kitchen and poured her a bowl of kibble. Then she prepared herself a cup of the strong Russian tea she’d learned to like since marrying Igor and took it into the living room.

  Placing her tea cup on a side table, she looked up at the oil painting over the fireplace. The picture portrayed an old-fashioned china pitcher haphazardly filled with irises. More irises were on the table in front of the pitcher, as if waiting to be arranged. It was a soft painting, vaguely impressionist in style. Igor had loved it.

  She picked up the CD remote and pressed play. The room filled with a soaring soprano voice singing Mozart’s heart-breaking “Dove Sono.”

  No. She couldn’t listen to that lament, today of all days. She clicked it off mid-phrase.