Dark Rhapsody

by Helaine Mario

  “Very well. She’s been helping me with the Rachmaninoff. And—she told me about the painting.”

  Finn looked at her sharply. “What painting?”

  “Dark Rhapsody.”

  “Gigi told you about Dark Rhapsody?” Shock shimmered in his voice.

  “Yes. She said you knew its provenance, and that you’d kept it for her for many years.”

  “Your mother loved that painting. It was hung—”

  “Over her piano.”

  “You remember.”

  “I remember. And now I’m in Europe because Gigi asked me to find Dark Rhapsody’s rightful heir.”

  “Ah. I’ve wondered about that. And did you?”

  “Yes. A lovely cellist named Hannah Hoffman, playing in Vienna.”

  “The blind cellist? I’ve heard her play. Exquisite. But Vienna is not Salzburg.”

  “No. I came to Salzburg because I thought you were dead. And then the postcard arrived. Why did you let everyone think you were dead, Finn? Are you in trouble?”

  Her father smiled tiredly. “They have been after me for a long time.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “It no longer matters. You shouldn’t be here, Maggie.”

  “Too late.” Maggie stepped closer to her father. His scent bombarded her with memories. Tall pines and winter forests. Her breath hitched. “I think I would have come no matter what. The truth is, I need answers. The nightmares have come back.”

  “About your mother.”

  “Yes. I have so many questions, Finn.” Her voice was barely audible. “About her. But also about you. Why you left your music. Why you left me. One minute I had a father, and the next minute I didn’t. I was only thirteen, Finn. I needed you.”

  “I know I hurt you, Maggiegirl. I did everything wrong by you.” He reached to touch a viola on a stand next to him, as if he could postpone his answer. “Do you know that ‘sorry’ comes from the word ‘sorrow’? It breaks my heart that I caused you sorrow, Maggie.”

  She stared at him. “But you did. And sorry doesn’t change the past.”

  “You said you remember seeing the Dark Rhapsody above your mother’s Steinway. Are your memories of that time coming back?”

  “No. Yes. Oh, God, I don’t know. Just flashes. Tumbling shards, like a kaleidoscope.”

  He was very still. “What do you remember about that time?”

  “You don’t forget the day your father walks out of your life.”

  “I deserve that. Of course you have put up a wall between us. With good reason.” His eyes were suddenly bright. “What else?”

  “Fragments, in the nightmares. They might not even be real memories. I’m hiding in the closet behind the piano. There are angry voices, a man’s legs. Roses scattered on the floor. I walk through a door … I remember a pool, a woman swimming, a blurred face in the vines. The air is pulsing with dark blue fog.” She shook her head back and forth. “God, everything is blue! I can’t see, I’m so afraid. And then I hear music. Impassioned, haunting music.”

  “A rhapsody …”

  “Yes! A rhapsody. Do you know it?”

  “Let it be, Maggie. There is a reason people repress memories.

  They can only hurt you.” “They can’t hurt as much as not knowing! I have to know what happened when I walked through that door. Something is blocking the memory, and I don’t know why.”

  “It was such a long time ago.”

  “Talk to me, Finn. I need to know the truth about what happened to my mother! I need to walk through that closed door. You owe me, Finn. You have answers. I know you do, damn you! And I’m not leaving until I get them.”

  “You’re as stubborn as your mother was! I should never have sent you that damned postcard.”

  “But you did. And here I am.”

  He shook his head in exasperation and began to turn out the lights. “I’m taking you back to your hotel. There is a door at the rear of the shop; it leads to an alley no one uses. My rover is parked there.” He turned off the last lamp, and looked down at her in the sudden darkness. “We will talk tomorrow morning.”

  His narrow face was pale in the light of the streetlamp that fell past the edge of the window shade, reminding her of the nightmare, and she took a wary step back.

  “I have a flight home in the morning. Why not now, Finn?”

  His gaze moved to the window. “Because it’s not safe for you here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  VIENNA

  SATURDAY NIGHT, OCTOBER 25

  “SO, BECKETT, YOU been sprung from the hospital yet? Tomorrow? Good news. What time is your flight?”

  In a dark corner booth of the Café Leopold Hawelka on Dorotheergasse, Simon Sugarman sat with his back to the wall, eyes locked on the café’s front door while he drank his espresso. “I’m staying in Europe, things have taken an unexpected turn. Johann Vogl is a murder investigation now. And—I’ve got to get to Provence. Young TJ Orsini’s room was searched last night. Torn apart. No idea if they found anything.”

  He listened, tapping his fingers on the table. “Kid’s fine, no one was there, thank God. But this race has taken an ugly turn.”

  The small bell over the front door jingled, and he saw the silver greyhound, followed by Hannah Hoffman, enter the café. “Gotta boogie, Mike, my friend is here. I’ll fill you in when I know more.” He disconnected and rose to his feet, calling, “Over here, Hannah.” Then he hurried across the room, guided her back to the booth, and helped her settle on the red-striped banquet.

  “You chose the far corner booth,” she said in her low voice.

  “I’m like Wild Bill Hickok, always sit with my back to the wall.” He grinned at her, hoping she would sense it, as he flagged a server in a stiff black jacket. “Coffee?”

  “Please. An Einspaenner. Double espresso with whipped cream.” She returned his smile.

  “Make it two,” he said to the waiter. And then, to her, “You had me at whipped cream. I like this place—it’s dark and not touristy. Not even a menu.”

  “I thought you would like it. Jac and I come here often after a performance. It was an artist’s haunt in the thirties. A good place to wind down.” She touched Jac’s smooth head and then said, “You enjoyed our Tosca?”

  He loosened his sports coat. “Not sure ‘enjoyed’ is the right word when no one makes it out alive. That Scarpia’s a helluva villain, isn’t he? But the best part was listening to an amazing cellist.”

  She leaned toward him, pleased. “You said you wanted to talk.”

  “When are you flying to New York?”

  “Tomorrow evening. Special arrangements are made for Jac as well. Gigi Donati has invited us to stay with her. She called me this morning. We had quite a long talk.”

  “You’ll like Gigi, she’s a class act. But—”

  The coffees arrived. Hannah sat back, ran a narrow finger around the rim of her cup thoughtfully. A hesitation, and then, “But? There is something in your voice. I feel as if you want me to leave Vienna as soon as possible. Why is that?”

  He raised his cup to his lips, drank. Buying time. Finally he said, “You’re right. Something’s happened, but I—”

  “Tell me,” she insisted. And then, with a spark of humor in her voice, “I don’t like to be kept in the dark.”

  Sugarman shook his head. “You are something else, Hannah Hoffman. Okay. It’s not good. The old guy I went to see this morning, the artist named Johann Vogl who sent us to you, was murdered sometime during the night.”

  Shock registered as her face drained of color. “Oh, dear Lord. The man who returned my grandparents’ candlesticks? You found him?”

  “Afraid so.”

  She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer in Hebrew. Then, “May he rest in peace. I wanted to thank him. What happened?”

  “Someone wanted what he had. A painting, possibly a Picasso.”

  “And the painting was gone when you got there.”

  “Bingo.”r />
  She pushed the heavy black curls back from her face. “You think someone found your artist and his painting by following Maggie.”

  She surprised him. “That’s exactly what I think. For someone who can’t see, you sure see a lot. And that means …”

  “That I could be in danger as well? Johann Vogl knew about me—so his murderer might know about me now.” The dark eyes glistened with thought. “But I don’t have the Dark Rhapsody, Simon.”

  “We don’t know what the killer knows, Hannah. Or what he thinks. But we know he’s looking for your grandfather’s art. And we know he’s capable of violence. Of murder.”

  She drank her coffee, then leaned toward him, disappointment and confusion glimmering like sudden rain in her eyes. “Is that why you came to the theater today? To protect me?”

  “I came because I wanted to hear you play.” I wanted to see you again.

  She sat back. “All right then. What do you want me to do?”

  He tried not to stare at the wisp of whipped cream on her lips. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll see you home, wait while you finish packing, and get you and Jacquie on the next plane to the States.”

  “I will think about it.” She brushed the cream from her mouth. “But Jac and I are not leaving here until I finish my Einspaenner.”

  Sugarman leaned back against the red banquet. “Okay by me,” he murmured.

  She clasped the large white cup with both hands and stared at him over the rim. “So you will drop us at the airport and then go off to do … what, exactly?”

  “You already know what I do, Hannah.”

  “You work on the side of the angels. Rescuing beauty for future generations. Protecting the world’s treasures matters, Simon. Art reminds us of who we are as human beings. It makes me so angry—and so sad—that people will wantonly destroy precious art.”

  “You make me sound like a saint. The high road’s not always my thing, Hannah. Sometimes I make up the rules after it’s over.”

  She laughed. “I get that searching for lost art is only the tip of your iceberg.” She held out an encouraging palm. “So …”

  “Johann Vogl was murdered on my watch, so I’ll be working with Interpol to find his killer—and trace the Picasso that was stolen from him.”

  “And then?”

  He tilted his head at her. “Actually, first. I’m heading to Provence as soon as I leave you. Have to make sure that Maggie’s godson is safe. He’s got a bull’s-eye on his back because he may know the location of more pieces stolen from your grandfather’s collection. And the guy looking for the art—looking for TJ—is a real whack job. Likes to hurt people.”

  “I know about TJ. I saw Maggie again this morning. We talked for over an hour. There is just something about her. I feel very close to her. She told me what happened in France. We talked about losing our husbands.” She closed her eyes, put a graceful hand to her heart. “And we talked about two little boys, about the same age, with dark curly hair and huge soulful eyes. Her godson, TJ, has been through more than any young child should have to endure.”

  Two little boys? Sugarman leaned closer. “TJ is a great kid, in spite of everything he went through. I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep him safe.”

  “I don’t doubt it. How did you ever become a rescuer?”

  “A rescuer?” He shifted uncomfortably, took another long swallow of coffee. Finally, he shrugged and said, “I’m just a crossword-loving vet who enlisted in the Army the day I graduated high school in Harlem, shipped off to Nam, then earned my JD at Yale in the early eighties with the help of the GI bill. Had a housemate named Victor Orsini while I was at Yale. Turns out his father stole a warehouse full of priceless art—some of it your grandfather’s—that eventually found its way into his son’s arms.”

  She nodded slowly. The small lamp on the wall above her lit tendrils of her black curls, turning the fine strands to gold. He pictured her playing Dvorak on her cello the night before. One of the most beautiful moments he could remember …

  Her low voice broke into his thoughts. “And that led you to Dark Rhapsody.”

  “Eventually. And to you.”

  She smiled in the shadows. “So I have my grandfather to thank. His shop in Florence was the link?”

  “Roger that. Orsini stole some of your father’s art, and music, too. The Nazis got the rest. All that art has disappeared. It’s hidden somewhere, and I’m looking for it. Your grandfather, Felix Hoffman, is the connection.”

  “My mother’s letter said that Matisse’s Dark Rhapsody was the jewel of my grandfather’s collection. Why is that?”

  “Your grandfather had a collection of forty, maybe fifty pieces of art, some of them worth hundreds of thousands of dollars on today’s market. But the Matisse is special because it’s thought to be the most unusual of a series. Matisse loved brilliant colors and light-filled windows, and he painted many gorgeous window scenes—Open Window at Collioure, The Blue Window, The Window at Tangier, Violinist by the Window—but your Dark Rhapsody is one of his rare pieces, far as I know, with a dark night sky. All the rest are painted in sunlight, or dusk. And, well, he painted a cello and goldfish in front of a window once, but never a window with a beautiful cellist lit by candlelight. And just a few years ago, in Paris, a Matisse sold for forty million dollars.”

  “Oh. You are very good at what you do, aren’t you?”

  He scowled. “I’m really good at my job. At life, not so much.”

  “Jac and I don’t agree. Anyone who can spell Aeschylus correctly is okay in our book.”

  “Aeschylus? How the devil do you know that I …” His gaze sharpened. “Well, well. As in, a nine-letter word for ‘Ancient Greek Tragedian.’ So you were listening. You do crossword puzzles, too?”

  She nodded, smiling that he’d made the connection.

  “What paper?”

  “New York Times, Sunday.”

  “Ouch. Pencil or pen?”

  “Seriously?” She smoothed the greyhound’s head. “He has to ask?”

  Sugarman laughed. “Should have known. You are one damned piece of work, Hannah Hoffman. Seriously.”

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment.” And then, “Your parents raised an interesting man.”

  “They were the interesting ones.” He leaned back against the banquet, folded his arms across his chest, and gazed at her. This woman was full of surprises. “My mama was a nightclub waitress, and a hellava cook. Pop was a redcap for the railroad. We lived under a soot-covered sky in a walk-up tenement on 125th Street in Harlem.”

  “Honest work.”

  “But hard. They sacrificed so much for me, told me to always have hope. During the day my mama cooked for the white ladies on the Upper East Side. My dad worked all day, then came home and drilled me in history. He taught me to use my head, not my fists. ‘A black man can’t show anger,’ he said. He …” His voice fell away.

  “Simon?”

  His breath came out. “He always told me, ‘You do what you gotta do.’”

  “And do you?”

  He grinned. “Let’s just say I have a sliding scale when it comes to right and wrong.” He glanced at his watch. “We have just a few more minutes. And you promised to tell me how you learned to play the cello.”

  She looked down at Jac. “Ah. He’s still fixated on the blind thing.” Her eyes, dark as opals, rose to his. “The simple truth is, I learned to play the cello as a child, when I could still see. So I’m one of the lucky ones. I told you that I have some light perception, I can see some shadows. But I already know colors, faces, birds, trees, and flowers. What a city looks like against a sky full of stars.” She laid a gentle hand on her dog. “I know how beautiful a greyhound is. I’m comfortable in my skin, Simon.”

  “I can tell. And I’m glad you know what Jacquie looks like.”

  “Me, too.” She hesitated, then took a decisive breath. “I lost my sight three years ago, in a car accident. By then playing the cello, finding thos
e notes, all that exquisite music—it was part of me, like breathing.”

  “A car accident took your sight?”

  “A truck came out of nowhere. It still plays in my head, over and over, in such horrible slow motion. In my dreams, I still have my sight. I can see those huge blinding headlights coming at us …” She shook her head, letting the words trail into silence.

  She turned away, but not before he saw the black rain wash across those remarkable eyes. Us? Must have been bad. Really bad. Sensing there was so much more she wasn’t ready to say, he reached across the small round table, touched her hand. “I have a pal—Mike Beckett, you’d like him—who says, ‘Bad things happen fast, but we live through them slow.’”

  She grasped his fingers, held on tightly. Her skin was warm, soft. But the delicate fingers were surprisingly strong. “Yes, that’s exactly how it was. How it is.”

  “Except that you still can play your beautiful music,” he said softly. “The universe left you a gift.”

  She pushed her half-finished coffee away and stood up. The greyhound immediately stood by her side, at attention. “Yes. But the price was too high, Simon.”

  He stared at her. “Hannah …”

  “Not now, I can’t. We have work to do.” She bent to Jac. “Come, my beautiful.”

  My beautiful … But he said, “Work to do? I’m not going to like this, am I?”

  “Probably not. Jac and I are not going to New York, not yet. We are going with you to Provence.”

  “Dammit, Hannah. I have to dive down that rabbit hole, you don’t. No way I’m bringing you there with me.”

  “It’s my choice, Simon. Somewhere out there is a man who wants to hurt Maggie and her godson. Perhaps Jac and I can help you with Tommy Orsini. It’s the least I can do.”

  “But you don’t even know TJ. Why would you try to protect a kid you don’t know?”

  “I lost my little boy along with my husband in that car accident, Simon. He would have been about TJ’s age now. Losing a child—it is the most terrible, darkest thing that ever happened to me. Even my blindness doesn’t come close. I couldn’t help my son, but maybe I can help TJ. I will find a way.”