Dark Rhapsody

by Helaine Mario

  “You don’t pull any punches, do you?”

  “Not when it comes to a child, no. You said it yourself, Simon. You do what you gotta do.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  SALZBURG

  SUNDAY MORNING.

  IT HAD RAINED sometime in the night, and now the high alpine meadow was blanketed in a soft opalescent light. The sky was early-morning blue, and the towers and cupolas of old Salzburg gleamed in the valley like a town in a fairy tale.

  Maggie had postponed her flight, and now she sat on a weathered wooden bench, gazing down at the spires of Nonnberg Abbey just below her on the hillside. She could see the walled garden, with its winding paths and small trees and the crosses that lined the way. The abbey bells tolled and echoed over the hills, calling the faithful to Sunday prayer.

  Like Leonard Bernstein’s A Quiet Place Suite, she thought. Or, as someone had called the work, “a quiet, sweet place.” She shifted on the bench. Her father sat very still beside her, his falcon profile enigmatic and etched sharp as the mountain’s granite in the morning light. True to his word, Finn had appeared at her door just after seven a.m. with Starbucks and a Red Sox cap pulled low over his head and whisked her off in the dark, beaten-up Land Rover. Feeling her eyes on him now, he turned to her and waved his arms over the verdant, sheep-dotted hillside.

  “Seem familiar?” he asked with a faint smile. “The Sound of Music was your first Broadway play. Your mother and I took you. It was your favorite movie for years.”

  She gazed down at the abbey, picturing the scene from the movie. “Still is. The hills are alive here, and filled with music. Is that why you brought me here?”

  “We’re here because it’s a safe place to talk,” he said quietly, looking down at his boots. “It’s all about sight lines. We can see anyone coming for miles.”

  “I don’t see anyone. So, let’s talk.”

  “It’s your agenda, Maggie.”

  She suddenly could not think of any words to begin. Finally she said, “I told you I’ve been having dreams about my mother. Do you have them, too?”

  His face softened as he gazed up at the clouds. “About Lily? All the time. I dream that I am running through a huge, shadowed theater. Your mother is playing the piano somewhere behind me, dressed in a long white gown, waiting for me to find her. And you are curled beneath her Steinway with a book, the way you always were when you were just a wee girl. The music is so beautiful. Chopin, yes? His Ballade No. 3. It shimmers, echoes from the rafters. The three of us together. I don’t want it to stop …”

  Her father’s head came up, his eyes meeting hers, bleak and lost. “But it is just a dream.”

  “I remember hiding under the piano when I was very young,” she said. “I remember how Chopin made me feel. An aching, a longing for something I couldn’t name …”

  “Yes. Why is it that chords and rhythms combined in just the right way can make us feel so much? I’m glad you remember. You were so tiny, so precocious. So solemn and gifted. I can see you, sitting at the piano in your favorite flowered shirt. Your feet didn’t even reach the pedals! All the years I was gone, I would think back to those moments. I can still see that little girl, her fingers flying over the keys in a blur.” His expression softened. “Chopin was always your favorite. I was in the audience at the Royal Festival Hall in London, the night you played his Ballade No. 1. My God, that terrifying, complex coda. But you did it, and I was never so proud.”

  “You were there?” Something shifted inside her. “How have you lived so long without your music?”

  He locked his eyes on hers. “But I still have music, Maggie. Just listen.”

  She tilted her head, closed her eyes. What did she hear? Birdsong. The soft echo of church bells and the faint whisper of the nuns’ Gregorian chanting beyond the convent walls. Pines rustling in the soft mountain breeze. The low call of the sheep. A car horn, muffled by distance. She smiled.

  Finn Stewart nodded at her. “Salzburg Morning Symphony,” he murmured. Very slowly he stood up, raised his hands, and, with a sharp downbeat, began to conduct an orchestra only he could hear.

  Maggie’s heart twisted in her chest. She had watched him conduct so many times, from theater wings to balcony seats and front row center. Mesmerized by her father’s frail arms carving so deftly through the air, she felt herself falling into the memory.

  She is sitting in a chorister seat, behind and above the orchestra, facing the conductor. The tumultuous chords of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony are falling all around her. She cannot take her eyes off her father. The baton arcs with a grand flourish. His gestures are powerful and angular, his body bending low and then rearing up like a stork. He beats the air with furious up and down movements, cuing the horns with a riveting spread of arms and fingers, gathering the violins with deep, floor-scraping, left-handed scoops, as if he is tearing the music from his body. A fierce backhand slash of the baton, then signaling the cymbals with a climactic thrust, his fingers spread like stars.

  His open tuxedo jacket flaps like raven wings behind him, black tie undone, his hair a wild white halo around his head, and his face—eyes closed, chin raised, his expression one of profound passion and—He opens his eyes. Looks right at her. His eyes widen with … incomprehension? Fury? Fear? Without warning, in the middle of the first movement, he throws down his baton, leaps from the podium, and runs off the stage into the darkened wings.

  Maggie opened her eyes. Just like that, in the toss of a baton, he had disappeared from her life. She felt the tears hot on her cheeks as she stared at her father. “Oh, Finn,” she whispered.

  He heard her voice and froze, suddenly, the way he had so many years ago. But this time he turned to her, his shoulders slumping. “Of course, I miss the music,” he said softly. “I would give anything if I could come home. If I could conduct again.”

  She could barely breathe. “Why can’t you, Finn? I don’t understand. You were made to conduct. What is going on with you?”

  He ran a bony hand through his silvered hair. “I’ve grown old, Maggiegirl. I’m seventy-three, life has passed me by. I used to conduct for thousands. Now I sit alone and forgotten, playing Mozart in a dark, drafty music shop. And the irony is, for the life of me, I cannot figure out how I got here.” He gazed out over the mountainside. “Music is sound and rhythm … and silence. I miss the sound of people listening.”

  Whatever she had expected, coming here, it was not this. She surely hadn’t expected him to strike this deep chord within her. She wanted to say, “Come home, to me and your family. Give us time to get to know each other again.” But she said, “Come home, Finn. To music, to your life. Give me time to ask the questions I need to ask.”

  “First the tragedy, then the farce,” he murmured. “I’ve made a train wreck of my personal life, and yours. Musicians are notorious for their own destruction, don’t you know that? Beethoven, Schubert, Bach. Even Mozart! Schumann’s failed suicide … Why do you think he wrote Ghost Variations?”

  “Don’t you dare give me that tortured genius crap! You are still a brilliant musician. It’s time to make things right.”

  “I’m too old, sprite, it’s been too long.”

  “Don’t you remember what Leonard Bernstein said? ‘To achieve great things, two things are needed—a plan, and not quite enough time.’”

  The ghost of his old smile. “I wish it were that simple, Maggie. You don’t know, you can’t—”

  “Then tell me! It’s why I’ve come. I want to know—I need to know—how my mother died.”

  “Ah, sprite. It’s so complicated. When we were first married, we were so damned happy. Life was more than we could have imagined. We had our music, our friends, our dreams. And then you came along and it was even better. God, you were such a beautiful child. Still are.”

  He swiped at his eyes. “I’m not sure when it started to go south. It was the sudden success, I guess, for both of us, taking us down different paths. Gigi was coaching your mother, and
Lily was making quite a name for herself. She played like a goddess, you know it. Her Carnegie debut was astonishing. They made a recording of it—Lily Stewart Plays Rachmaninoff at Carnegie Hall.” His gaze swept the roofs of the abbey. “Haven’t seen that album in years. It’s got to be in the shop somewhere. You need to hear it. She seemed happy, I thought she was …”

  Finn stood up, began to pace, the words tumbling faster and faster. “Then I met Lenny Bernstein in New York. Larger than life. Took me under his wing, and the next thing I knew I was in the classical music stratosphere. I called Lenny ‘LB.’ Parties, expensive wine, late nights, adulation. Tours. Guest conducting. Always, first and foremost, the music. It was my drug, Maggie. I’m not proud of it. No excuses, right? But my world was spinning, it all went to my head. And somehow, your mother was left behind. It was my fault, totally my fault. I would be gone for days, then come home only to change my shirt and give you a trinket and a quick hug.”

  He shook his silver head. “Lily was not jealous. I want you to know that. She was lonely. The arguments with your mother came more frequently, became more bitter. Then, just after your thirteenth birthday, Lily finally asked for a divorce.”

  “A divorce!” The words hit Maggie with the force of an electric shock. “I had no idea.”

  Finn gave a humorless laugh. “Neither did I. By then I was a God, Maggie, a Maestro! I still sent your mother love letters, for God’s sake! I couldn’t understand why she would want to leave me. I was hurt. Furious.”

  She stared at him. “I hear the angry voices, in my nightmare. And—oh, God—I see a face, Finn. A face with no features. Is it you? Were you there when my mother died? She was such a strong swimmer. How could she drown?”

  Before he could answer, her cell phone rang, as unexpected and out of place as a shot on the hillside. She glanced at the number. Simon Sugarman.

  “Simon, this is not a good time …” She felt herself go pale as he spoke, his words quick and shocking. “What? He’s what? Oh, God. What will we tell Gigi?” A heartbeat. She gripped the phone tighter. “No, please no. Which hospital? Yes, okay, I understand. Of course. The next plane.”

  She disconnected and turned to her father. “I have to get back to the States.”

  “What’s happened?” said Finn.

  She shook her head in disbelief. “The man I visited yesterday in Vienna has been murdered. Someone must have followed me there. If I hadn’t gone to see him … Oh, God, Finn, that lovely man is dead because of me!”

  “I was afraid of this.” Her father reached out, put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Maggiegirl. His murderer is to blame, not you. But you are going to have to be very, very careful now.”

  His touch was so familiar, so reassuring, so … She forced herself to step away. “I can’t do this now. I have to get to the airport. Gigi Donati was attacked in her home in New York. She’s in intensive care.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  LENOX HILL HOSPITAL, NEW YORK CITY

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 26

  “HOW IS SHE?” The quiet words, and the hand on her shoulder, woke her. Maggie opened her eyes, saw Robbie Brennan’s concerned face wavering above her. She blinked in the shadowed room, jet-lagged and disoriented, unsure for a moment where she was. She’d begun the day in Salzburg with her father …

  Then Simon’s call, the mad rush to the airport, the anxious nine-hour flight to New York. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts, and squinted at her watch. Only four p.m.? Why did it feel like ten or eleven? But it’s six hours earlier here in New York, she reminded herself.

  “Maggie,” said Robbie. His voice penetrated the fog, and she heard the beeping sounds of the machines, saw the tiny blinking green lights, became aware of the sharp smell of alcohol and the warm, still skin beneath her hand. She realized she was sitting by a hospital bed, clasping Gigi’s withered fingers. Raising her head, she saw that the window opposite the bed was gray with rain hurling against the glass.

  “Robbie?” She stood, let herself be folded into his reassuring arms. “Oh, Robbie, she hasn’t awakened yet.”

  “It will be okay,” he said into her hair. “God has a plan for Gigi. And this isn’t it.”

  She heard the swish of his black robes as he moved to the side of the bed and gazed down at the aging pianist. “Ouch,” he murmured. “She’s going to be royally pissed when she looks into the mirror.”

  “Those bastards hit her, Robbie! Look at her face, so bruised.”

  “What’s the prognosis?”

  “Guarded.”

  His breath came out in a relieved whoosh. “Could be worse. She’s a tough old broad, Maggie.”

  “You’re right about that.” Very gently she laid Gigi’s hand on the blanket and stood to face her friend. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to visit a parishioner and heard about Gigi.”

  “I’m glad you’re here. I keep trying to pray, but it’s been so long, I don’t know what to say.”

  Robbie touched her shoulder. “‘Please’ and ‘Thank you’ are the two greatest prayers of mankind.”

  She remained silent, her eyes on the rain that slashed across the window.

  “St. Augustine said, ‘Faith is to believe what you do not see.’” He drew her away from the bed. “The detective by the door told me this happened two nights ago. She was home alone. Graciela found her in the morning.”

  “Why, Robbie? Why would anyone hurt such a remarkable woman?”

  “For her art, Maggs. I’m told one of her paintings was stolen.”

  Dark Rhapsody? “Oh, no,” whispered Maggie. “If they took her Matisse it will break her heart.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Robbie. “What do you—”

  “Is that you, Robbie Brennan?” said an imperious voice from the bed. “If you are here to give me Last Rights, then they will be the last rights you ever give anyone, young man.”

  Robbie and Maggie turned as one to gaze into Gigi Donati’s bright amethyst eyes.

  “Then it’s lucky for me you’ve awakened,” said the Cardinal with a wink. “I’ll go get your nurse.” He turned to Maggie. “Prayer is the world’s greatest wireless connection,” he said as he disappeared through the door.

  Maggie breathed a silent “thank you” and moved to Gigi’s bedside. “We were so worried about you. How are you feeling?”

  “Like a Steinway fell on me.” Gigi moved her head very slowly toward the machines. “Good God. Where am I? What happened?”

  Maggie leaned toward her. “Perhaps you should wait until the doctor comes.”

  “Tell me, Maggie. Now.”

  Don’t tell her about Johann. Not here, not yet. “Someone attacked you in your penthouse. Did you see who it was?”

  Gigi closed her eyes, trying to think. “No one attacked me. I fell.” Her eyes flew open, bright with memory and outrage. “Is Graciela all right? Did they hurt her?”

  “No, no, she’s fine. She found you.”

  Gigi sighed with relief. “I had a ticket for Lincoln Center. But I was tired, so I gave my ticket to Graciela and went to bed. No one was supposed to be home. Then a sound woke me, footsteps, whispering. I opened my bedroom door. Lord, it was so dark. I saw two men, one very tall, dressed all in black. They were carrying—something. I ran toward them, of course, swinging my cane and shouting.”

  “Of course you did,” murmured Maggie.

  Gigi gave a faint chuckle. “Lost my damned balance, fell flat on my face.” Her eyes flew to Maggie. “What did those bastards take?”

  “Some of the art, I’m told. The detectives will—”

  A nurse entered and bent over Gigi, taking her pulse with a quiet, “It’s so good to see you awake, Madame Donati. Your doctor will be right in.” Turning to Maggie, she said, “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave.”

  “Come back after you have given Rachmaninoff his four hours,” demanded Gigi. “And not a moment sooner!”

  Maggie stood, not
sure whether to laugh or pass out. Her watch told her it was now only five p.m., New York time. No time for sleep yet, her exhausted brain warned her. You have to practice the rhapsody, get yourself to Carnegie Hall and—Oh, God, Carnegie Hall. The stage door!

  I’ll be there, Maggie. Five p.m. on Sunday, at the Carnegie stage door …

  She froze, turned to the nurse. “What day is it?”

  Sunday …

  * * *

  The sliver of sky above the Seventh Avenue skyscrapers was metal gray with rain and dusk. Streetlamps and window lights shimmered in halos of fog as Michael Beckett, with the Golden by his side, rolled his wheelchair across the wet sidewalk toward the unobtrusive stage door on 56th St. behind Carnegie Hall. The small sign said, “Artist’s Entrance.” A uniformed guard seated at a desk just inside the glassed door rose and came forward.

  “Evening, sir. Performance won’t be over for several hours, at least. Long wait in this rain.”

  Beckett shifted in his seat, frustrated that he had to look up. “I’m here to see a pianist, Maggie O’Shea. Magdalena O’Shea.” He touched the small bouquet of white lilacs resting in his lap. “We’re supposed to meet here today, at five o’clock.”

  The guard shook his head, unconvinced. “She’s not here, haven’t seen her in several days. She’s somewhere in Europe, I think. You sure it was for today?”

  “I’m sure.” Beckett looked down at the Golden. “You think she knows where I’ve been? You think she’s pissed?”

  The dog’s eyes seemed to be saying, I told you so.

  “Yeah, I hear you. But we’re not giving up. Gonna find her, fella, and make it right.” He turned to the guard. “Just in case she shows … tell her we were here.”

  Then he grasped the wheels of the chair and he and the Golden turned back into the rain.

  Some forty-five minutes later, when Maggie O’Shea came running up 56th Street, no one was waiting at the stage door. But someone had left a small bouquet of white lilacs, now soaked by rain, on the pavement beside the door.