Dark Rhapsody

by Helaine Mario

  He stopped before a high wooden door and reached out to knock. “Herr Vogl? It’s Agent Simon Sugarman. We have an appointment.”

  The unlatched door swung open silently. Uh-oh.

  The smell hit him first. Metallic, sweet, coppery. Damn. He pushed through the door.

  “Shit!” Morning sun fell in shimmering bars through a tall window, lighting the old white-haired man who lay sprawled facedown on the floor, one hand reaching toward the far wall. Dark red blood stained the back of his shirt, formed a thick black pool beneath him.

  Sugarman bent quickly to the man and felt for a pulse, knowing by the color of the blood, and by the absolute stillness of the body, that he was too late. “Sorry, pal,” he murmured. Death had occurred hours earlier, probably not long after Maggie O’Shea had left.

  Maggie. The killer had been following Maggie.

  Sick with the knowledge, he raised his eyes toward the far wall, searching for the portrait of Gisela.

  A large rectangular gilt frame hung on the wall. It was empty.

  * * *

  It was almost five p.m. Maggie had drawn a three-block circle around the old clock tower on her map, and for the past several hours, she had explored the old streets one by one. Now the sun was going down and she was tired and losing hope.

  “Talk about a wild goose chase,” she muttered, stopping to finish the last of her water bottle. “Damn it, what the hell am I doing?” Let her father stay lost. Stay dead.

  It would be dark soon. Time to call it a day, return to the hotel she’d booked near Mozart’s home, maybe go for a long run along the river. Then tackle Rachmaninoff’s rhapsody for several hours before soup and an early night. Her flight left at eight a.m. tomorrow, so she had to be up before dawn. Welcome to the glamorous life of the concert pianist. She smiled, shook her head with a wry twist, and turned the corner.

  The sign on the side of the centuries-old wall said “Getreidegasse.” Why was it so familiar? Ah, she thought. Number 9. The yellow building where Mozart was born. The popular shopping street was busy, filled with early evening strollers. Not the quiet street she was searching for. She came to a small alley, turned right, then left, deeper into the maze of narrow cobblestoned passageways that were now shadowed with dusk.

  She suddenly became aware of the quiet. Glancing behind her, she realized that she was alone in the small lane. Shops on either side of the street were closed or boarded up. Windows were black. Darkness filled the narrow, deserted street, just a single streetlamp blinking on some thirty feet ahead of her.

  Just keep moving. Time to head home.

  The sound of tires on stone, out of sight, but slowly following. She turned to search the lane. Nothing. But the ominous sound drew closer. The small knot of fear. What if … She reached for her phone.

  A sudden low roar behind her. Panic flared as a motorbike skidded around the corner and sped across the stones toward her. A bright headlamp—aimed directly at her! She cried out and pressed into a doorway. The Vespa shot by her, hot air rushing against her face, a gloved hand grabbing for her shoulder.

  She stumbled. The driver, dressed all in black, with a dark-glassed helmet covering his face, stared directly at her as he shot past.

  “God in heaven.” Maggie ran out into the lane, straining to see a license plate, but it was too dark. At the end of the street, the bike skidded to a halt, began to turn back toward her.

  Maggie turned and ran.

  The roar of the bike grew louder behind her.

  There, a passageway just beyond the row of tangled bicycles. She ran faster, turned the corner. Cobblestones bending right, then left. The thunder of the bike filled her head.

  Keep going!

  Another turn, another. A narrow alley. Quick, before he sees you! She ran into the alley, sank down into the shadows behind a large trash container, and held her breath.

  Sudden silence. Darkness.

  Was he out there, waiting? Had he found her?

  No lights, no sound. Only the faint mew of a cat. And her heart banging in her ears. Damned thief, trying to steal her shoulder bag. Nerves taut as piano wire, she clutched her purse against her chest, pressed back into the shadows, and counted to sixty.

  Okay, she’d lost him. Very slowly, she stood, tried to see down the alleyway. Empty. Just get out of here, get back to the hotel.

  She turned the corner. And saw the clock tower in the last of the twilight, framed at the end of the tiny street. Above all the crooked shops hung the large ornate guild signs, festooning the narrow passage like lanterns.

  She fumbled in her purse, found the postcard, checked the shops. A guild sign showing a boot, another with a duck. Yes! She turned and hurried down the passageway.

  The street was empty, filled with dark cobalt shadows. She walked slowly past the ancient, decorated facades of the shops, her eyes lifted to the wrought-iron signs swinging above her head. Kaffee. Antique Jewelry. Die Uhr … clocks?

  Soft footsteps on the cobblestones behind her. Heart clutching, she spun around. No one.

  Keeping a wary watch over her shoulder, she hurried on. Halfway down the passageway, she found the shop she sought. The iron sign above her, in the shape of a violin with the words, Musik Instrumente, was exactly as pictured on the postcard. And beneath the sign, painted on the shop’s mullioned window, the words, Das Geschaft Des Geigenbauer.

  Maggie checked the small translation section of her guidebook just to be sure. Yes. The Violin Maker’s Shop. She peered through the small panes of the dusty glass window. Dark, quiet. Nothing but shapes and shadows. The heavy oaken door was closed.

  God, God. Would she find her father in the shop? So many months since she had glimpsed him in the crowd near the stage door. And then—the obituary. Was he really alive?

  Why on earth had she come? Did she even want to find the man who had abandoned her so many years ago? What if it was her father’s face in her nightmare?

  She felt the panic building in her chest. Was she ready for the answers? Not even close. But face it, the child deep inside her still longed for her father. And if Finn was in trouble …

  What if, what if. You’re here. This is what you wanted, what you told Gigi … one more chance to talk to him. Just do it.

  With a final glance over her shoulder at the empty alley, Maggie took a deep hitching breath. Then, knowing she could be wrenching a door open onto the past, she reached for the worn brass handle.

  * * *

  A small bell over the door announced her arrival. The interior of the shop was shadowed, smelling of polish, old wood, and—a vaguely familiar scent that made her think of tall fir trees and winter forests. Dust motes spun in an angled bar of light that spilled through the mullioned window. Maggie stood very still. Quiet. Only the ticking of a grandfather clock, somewhere in the darkness. And, almost inaudible, the low distant notes of Chopin’s Heroic Polonaise, played by Horowitz. The owner had good taste.

  “Hello?” Softly.

  No answer. Louder now, “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  Trying to ignore her feeling of relief, she wandered deeper into the small room, which was crowded with string instruments of every size and make. Cellos, violins, violas … scattered on tables, displayed on shelves and walls, swinging gently from hooks on old oaken rafters. A Schimmel grand piano stood in solitary splendor near the window, glowing in the last of the twilight. Maggie’s breath came out in a soft woosh of appreciation as she ran a palm over smooth, warm wood.

  Stacks of decades-old 78 rpm records, their cardboard jackets faded and stained, were scattered on a table next to an antique phonograph. An image of a large grooved record spinning on a turntable flashed into her head. A Mozart concerto … Did her parents have such a collection when she was a child?

  Several stringed instruments rested on a shelf nearby. Reaching for a deep red violin, Maggie plucked a string and smiled as she heard the pure pitch of the A note trembling in the silent room.

  “Berühren Sie nicht die inst
rumente, bitte. Do not touch the instruments, please.”

  The low, bass-like voice came from behind her, across the room. A voice she hadn’t heard in a very long time. She spun around.

  The black outline of a man emerged from the deeply shadowed doorway. He was tall and thin, with a wild mane of long silver hair and a face like a falcon. He moved toward her with an edgy, aggressive energy, a loping, elegant gait she’d never forget. Maggie found herself looking into eyes that were fierce and blue as an October sky.

  “Hello, Father.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  SALZBURG

  SATURDAY NIGHT

  IN THE VIOLIN Maker’s Shop in Salzburg, a lamp clicked on, spilling a small circle of light over a graceful cello. Finn Stewart whipped his glasses off, peered toward her. “Come into the light where I can see you.”

  Trying to breathe, Maggie squared her shoulders and stepped into the gold pool of lamplight.

  “My God. Maggiegirl.” Finn Stewart’s shocked eyes locked on hers. The ghost of an old smile played across his lined face as he leaned toward her. “You have your mother’s eyes.”

  The voice so familiar, like a bass echoing on an empty stage. Tall, craggy, and still too thin, with new, deep furrows on his pale face, he was dressed in faded jeans and a white open-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His once dark hair was longer, almost to his shoulders, now pure white shot with streaks of silver. Age had drained him of color, but the brows still spiked above those intense blue eyes.

  He was longing and childhood, sorcery and music. Don’t be taken in by it, she cautioned herself, and stood very still, suddenly apprehensive and unsure.

  “You’re alive …” she murmured.

  “I know how you must be feeling, but—”

  A wave of blinding anger washed over her. “You don’t know anything about me, Finn.”

  He stiffened. “Cold as a British beach in winter …” Then stepped closer as understanding sparked. “That damned postcard. That’s how you found me.”

  Wordlessly, she held out the postcard and waved it in the air.

  She saw his lined face turn ashen, watched the sudden lightning bolt of fear leap into his eyes. “What?” she whispered. “What is it?”

  “I should never have sent it.” Finn Stewart glanced at the window, moved quickly to lock the door. Pulling down the front shades, he turned to her. “Does anyone know you are here?”

  “Why do you—?”

  “Tell me, Maggie! It’s important!”

  “I told a friend I was coming to Salzburg, but … no. No one knows about this shop.” At least that much was true.

  She watched the muscles of his face relax and he forced a smile as he gestured toward a worn sofa along the far wall. “Come, sit. Do you want tea? Water, wine?”

  “Not wine.”

  The long silver hair fell over his eyes as he shook his head. “Ah, of course, my reputation precedes me. But no wine for me, not anymore. I’ve been clean since I came to Salzburg.” He tugged at a necklace hidden beneath his shirt and held a bronze disc to the light. “My sobriety medallion, two years and counting.” His mouth lifted in wry amusement. “Although no one should be cold sober when those pompous music critics ask, ‘Who created music?’”

  Tucking the medal back inside his shirt, he took a step toward her. “I am glad to see you, Maggiegirl.”

  Maggiegirl.

  The nickname conjured a fragment of memory. It was snowing and very cold. She was walking with her father under trees festooned in icicles. He was holding her mittened hand and laughing down at her, telling her a story about a very lonely princess who lived in an ice castle and played a harp.

  Maggie closed her eyes. “You told me a story once, about a princess who played a harp sonata. The music fell around her like crystal tears. And you said—”

  “Music tells our stories, Maggiegirl.”

  She gazed up at him. “Don’t call me that, Finn.”

  He frowned. “Leonard Bernstein called his daughter Critter—would you prefer that? But you’re right, of course. I gave up that right a long time ago. So why have you come?” He glanced toward the shaded window once more, as if expecting to see someone lurking in the dusky shadows. “You shouldn’t be here, Maggie.”

  “Why?”

  He just shook his head and drew her away from the window. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You never could tell a lie, sprite. I’d win big playing poker with you.” The faint smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “It’s been a difficult year for me,” she admitted.

  “I know you lost your husband,” he said, “and I’m very sorry. I know what it feels like to lose the ones you love.” His eyes grew distant. “Grief always stays with you, doesn’t it? But hopefully not the raw lunacy of those early days.”

  Glancing at the grand piano, she gave a slight shrug of shoulders. “I’m finally playing music again. I’m finding my way.”

  “Carrie Fisher once said, ‘Take your broken heart and make it into art.’ That’s what you’re doing. Some of the best music comes out of the darkest places. You have music in your bones, Maggie.”

  “A gift given to me by you and my mother.”

  His smile, soft and gentle, finally reached the faded eyes. “Your mother insisted that you have music in your life. Not for the fame and glory, but so that you would have humanity. So that you would know beauty. So that your life would be rich with compassion and passion and love. Something far beyond this world.”

  Maggie brushed the sudden tears from her cheeks. “She was right. She gave me the greatest gift of all. And you had a gift to share as well, Maestro. Once upon a time.”

  “Another lifetime,” murmured her father. “You know I haven’t conducted in years.” He frowned. “Decades.”

  “The Mystery of the Maestro,” she quoted the Times, “who suddenly walked off the stage during a breathless performance of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony and disappeared forever into the night.”

  “I’ve never understood why orchestral conductors are the subject of such endless fascination,” grumbled Finn. He swept the long wisps of silvery hair back from his face with frustration.

  “Maybe because the great conductors tend to be larger than life—enigmatic, theatrical, passionate, seductive, charming yet solitary. Always on fire.”

  “Is that what you see when you look at me, Maggie?”

  She stared at her father. Finally, she said, “I see pride. Loss. Loneliness. Music.”

  He reached out to her. “Maggie …”

  She shook her head with warning and turned away to the table with the old 78 rpms. “You were a legend,” she said softly. “At school I was ‘Finn Stewart’s daughter.’ All the kids wanted to know what you were like. The world knew you, but I didn’t. Not really …”

  She lifted a jacketed album to the light. “Johann Strauss Waltzes,” she said under her breath.

  Her father came to stand behind her shoulder. “We had quite a collection of classical music albums back in the day. Your mother used to hide money and letters in the album covers.” She could hear the amusement in his voice. “That was after she read a book about a World War II spy who used a French record shop for passing secrets in the album jackets.”

  She turned to find his eyes on her, unsettling in their intensity. “What?” she whispered.

  “Sorry. I can’t believe you’re really here, can’t seem to take my eyes off you. You look so damned much like your mother. My God, you just show up on my doorstep with so much of Lily in you that I—”

  Maggie felt something stir in her chest. “Finn …”

  But now it was her father who turned away, to lift an album with a painted portrait of a bearded Tchaikovsky on the cover. “Water stains in the lower corner,” he muttered, “but still plays like a dream. Lily loved this piece.” He placed the recording on the ancient turntable, set the needle arm in the outer groove, and clicked a butt
on. A whirring sound, and then the opening chords of Swan Lake spilled into the room, surrounding them.

  For several moments they listened in silence. Then her father said, “Adolf Hitler kept a vast record collection of ‘forbidden’ music by Jewish and Russian composers. The family of a World War II Russian officer finally disclosed that music banned under the Third Reich—including works by Mendelssohn, Offenbach, Rachmaninoff, and Tchaikovsky—were discovered in 1945 hidden in Hitler’s bunker, with scratch marks indicating that these 78 rpm recordings, publicly labeled ‘subhuman music,’ had been played repeatedly, in secret.”

  Finn looked down at her. “Can you imagine never hearing Tchaikovsky, never taking your grandchildren to Swan Lake or the Nutcracker, because his glorious music was destroyed forever?”

  Maggie thought of her new grandson. “No, I can’t.” She hesitated, then said, “You have a grandson named Brian, and a great-grandson now, named Ben.” She smiled as she pictured his dear smiling face. “He was born in September. He has your eyes.”

  “I know about him. I’ve followed your life, your career, looked out for you in my fashion. I promised your mother I would.” His breath caught, as if it hurt to breathe. “I know you are preparing the Rachmaninoff. And I know some of what happened to you in France.”

  Surprised, she searched the old, familiar eyes for answers. She settled on, “Where have you been all this time?”

  “Amsterdam, Norway, southern Spain. Cornwall, the Outer Hebrides, Prague. And Germany. Do you know there is a house in Dresden called ‘The Singing House’? Whenever it rains, the drainpipes and gutters make the most amazing music.” He ran a hand over a scarred cello. “Now I rebuild music for others. Each instrument has its own history, its own story. How can people neglect …”

  He stopped when he saw the expression on her face. “Why are you really here, Maggiegirl? Sorry. Maggie.”

  Maggie looked away. “So many reasons,” she said softly. “I met Gigi Donati recently. She has very fond memories of her friendship with you and my mother.”

  A silver eyebrow spiked. “As I do of Gigi. Brilliant old girl, legendary talent. Getting on in years, but aren’t we all? She is well?”