I lifted her chin, searching her eyes. “Of course not. You stay here. But I’ve gotta fly. We need a present for Shelby for tomorrow morning. Do you think Wal-Mart is still open?”
She fumbled in her pocket. “Here. Take my house keys and go into the spare room closet. I’ve bought her presents every year for her birthday and Christmas since she fell into the coma. Bring a few of them back with you tomorrow, okay?”
I pocketed her keys, then cradled her hands in mine, bringing them to my lips. I kissed her cold fingertips, pulling her to me again. “You’ve got a deal, sweetheart.” I pressed my lips to her soft mouth, and then held her at arms’ length. “Now go back to your daughter. She needs you.”
I turned and walked slowly down the marble hall, whistling the refrain from “Joy to the World.”
Amelia shot me a teary-eyed smile. “Merry Christmas, Gus.”
“Merry Christmas, Amelia.”
I buttoned my coat and headed out into the night. Tasting snowflakes on my tongue, I stopped for a while to let them melt on my tongue. Stars sparkled overhead, and I swore I saw the flash of a red sleigh racing across the horizon.
I ambled toward my car. With a deep sigh of joy, I settled behind the steering wheel and headed down the snow-covered road for home.
-- The End --
Afterword
We writers aren’t often able to resurrect our dead.
For years I’ve regretted murdering one particularly sweet character early in my LeGarde Mystery Series, specifically in the second book, Upstaged , which you’ve just read.
The victim was originally named Ethel Fox. She loves dogs, is a high school janitor, and volunteers to help with the drama club’s productions. Ethel also happens to have Down Syndrome. Looking back now, I realize I probably cast her as a victim to rile up my readers with righteous anger, and to make the villain scream “evil.”
Now, years later, I’m lucky to have the chance for a “do-over.”
My cardinal rule includes no killing of main characters—after all, these folks carry the series through its ten plus books. I’ll never kill Gus or Camille, or Siegfried, even if you might worry that they’re dead in some books (wink). But the featured characters, who change from book to book, are always fair game.
When my publisher, Lida Quillen at Twilight Times Books, expressed interest in re-releasing my first two books as the “author’s preferred editions,” I was overjoyed. Now I could repair some of those newbie-writer awkward phrases, get rid of the excess adverbs and adjectives, and tidy up the prose. Besides, after writing sixteen books (I have three mystery series now), my skills have improved. It’s only natural to look back at one’s first books and grimace. So, after securing rights from the first publisher, I signed the new contracts and started the rewrites.
I didn’t change much in Double Forté , except to clean up the prose, add a bit more spice to a few scenes, and delete a bunch of excess words .
But when I started to polish Upstaged , I remembered an embarrassing and awkward experience I had last year, and was consumed with the idea of tweaking the plot.
While working at a facility for physically and intellectually challenged adults who love music, art, writing, and theater, my daughter Melanie invited me in to help during their summer festival. I arrived feeling quite virtuous, since I took a vacation day to volunteer, but instead of “helping” the folks there, I spent the day being humbled, time after time. The individuals radiated joy, and were delirious with excitement because they were about to put on a musical show for their visitors. Family and friends crowded the facility, and although I saw evidence of serious physical and intellectual “disabilities,” I was convinced these lovely people did not in any sense of the word feel disabled.
They danced and sang in the hallways, held hands and giggled, painted gorgeous pictures from wheelchairs (some of which were displayed in local art shows), and delighted in the costumes in which they’d been dressed for the celebration.
While I snapped pictures for their scrapbooks, I fell in love with the people and teachers, was suitably humbled, and realized that after eight hours of fun, I had received much more than I’d given. A few days later, I donated Upstaged to one of the higher functioning members of the writing class, knowing that she loved musicals.
So, a year passed, and the writing teacher asked me if I’d come in and give a talk to her students who loved books and writing. We had a blast, and talked for almost two hours. They asked great questions, and I delighted in their company. It was after the class while I was donating more books that I suddenly remembered I’d killed off a character with Down Syndrome in Upstaged .
What had I been thinking? Why did I donate the very book where I let the villain kill a character who represents so many people at this arts center? Was I insane? To be honest, it had been so long since I’d written the book, I really hadn’t remembered about Ethel, but when I did, I kicked myself. Repeatedly.
It was this experience that made me bring Ethel back to life. Not only did I prevent her murder in a way that didn’t goof up the original plot, but I gave her a cuter name. What kind of a name is Ethel for a sweet, helpful, loving lady? Her new name is Cindi. I think it fits her. Don’t you?
The Lord keeps me humble. It’s a good thing. There’s nothing worse than a bigheaded fool. But frankly, he doesn’t have to work very hard at it. I give him lots of help.
Aaron Paul Lazar
[email protected]
http://www.lazarbooks.com
Thank you for picking up Upstaged. Please join my mailing list to find out about the latest new releases, book sales, and special subscriber-only offers.
Acknowledgements
I’d like to extend a huge thank you to Sonya Bateman, my mentor and critique partner. Thank you, Sonya, for taking me under your wing in the beginning, and for sticking by my side for all these years. We’ve both come a long way since those early days of Broken Angel and Double Forté , haven’t we?
The following folks read both versions of Upstaged before it was finalized. Thank you all for your help!
Lorraine Anderson, Ronald E. Auty, Susan Baruch, Sue Clark, Sherrie Coleman, Kathy Durfee, Ray Edinger, Jeanne Fielding, Don Harman, Dave Kipp, Terry Harrison, Rik Lennox, Shirley Livingston, Joan Miller, Mum, Bobbi Scranton, Nancy Robinson, Jennifer Shoemaker, Jamie Shoemaker, Linda Slade, Scott Slattery, Paul Stuart, Sonya Bateman, and Judy Williams.
Special thanks to the Geneseo Drama Club for allowing me to participate (in the background) in their delightful productions. Bettina and Chandra, you are amazing role models for those kids!
Thank you, “Prospero,” for your editing assistance and for help creating the character list and image filter suggestions for the front cover. Your expertise is deeply appreciated. (Since the first printing of Upstaged , this wonderful man has passed away. He will be remembered fondly by many.)
The Songs
You can listen to real songs written by my daughter, Melanie Lazar (formerly Melanie Carbonneau), that match my lyrics with gorgeous sixties-style music. I’m in love with these pieces and I used them in the audiobook version of Upstaged , too. Here’s the link for her CD: https://guslegardemysteries.bandcamp.com/
Thanks for supporting this starving artist! Like father, like daughter. ;o)
What’s Next?
If you enjoyed this story, you might like the other books in the LeGarde Mystery series, most of which are set in East Goodland, New York with the same characters. (see complete book list following this). And if you enjoy the style of these books, check out The Green Marble Mystery series or the author’s “adult only” romantic suspense and his love stories at http://www.lazarbooks.com .
Please consider hopping over to Amazon to leave a short review if you enjoyed the book! Thanks.
- Aaron Paul Lazar
Following is an excerpt from FireSong , available on Amazon as a Kindle eBook. It is also available in print and audiobook.
Scroll down for Sampl
e Chapters: FireSong: a Gus LeGarde Mystery
Chapter One
P ine branches slapped at the stained glass window to the left of our pew. I glanced up from the church bulletin, wondering if the old glass would hold under the assault. The storm had come up quickly, although menacing black clouds had been brewing in the north a half hour earlier when we left the house.
My wife nudged me and pointed through one clear section of glass. “Gus, look.”
I followed Camille’s gaze. 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 and hugged me sideways. “You don’t see that every day.”
We’d been waiting for the sermon to start, trying to keep Johnny still for the past three minutes. A daunting task, at best. My grandson caught sight of the whirling dust balls and shrieked at the top of his voice. “Dorothy!” He stood on the seat and pointed outside.
I knew Johnny was referring to 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 that someone hadn’t raised this boy right.
Before I could explain, the lights flickered, and in a sudden gush, hail clattered on the roof.
“Santa Claus.” Johnny’s whispered words made me smile, but no one heard him. All eyes snapped to the tin ceiling rattling 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.
The air felt heavy and hot on this Sunday morning in East Goodland, New York. Already perspiring, 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 and chatted with our organist, our darling Johnny, almost three years old 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.
“Johnny!” I spewed a laugh and patted his knee.
The reverend climbed the pulpit and smiled at the congregation. “Welcome, brothers and sisters.”
Johnny squealed and grunted like a pig 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 nearly 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 and lowered my head to his level. “Sit.”
My words must have come out sterner than I intended for he slumped against me, his mouth turned down in a pout .
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 flailing his arms toward the window. “Why’s it night out?”
I followed his gaze and felt a prickle of concern. Daylight had indeed disappeared. “It’s just a storm, buddy. Don’t worry.”
He quickly lost interest in the diminishing sunlight and turned his palm up, wiggling his fingers for candy. I unwrapped the third peppermint Lifesaver of the morning and pushed it into his sticky hand, wondering if the roll would last until the Sunday school exodus. He popped it in his mouth and plopped down on the pew.
Camille pressed close to me in 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 within me accompanied by totally inappropriate stirrings of desire.
I tried to refocus and stared at the wart on the bald head 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 in this very church, although with all that had happened since our marriage last May, it seemed like a lifetime 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, 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!”
There it idled. Although the storm wailed outside, his voice made heads turn. I ignored Elliot Newman’s glare and clamped down on the urge to burst into hysterical laughter, then slid my arm around Johnny’s shoulders and pointed to Shelby. “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. Shelby extinguished the lighter, 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 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.
I leaned forward to peel the back of my wet shirt from the pew. Because of the varnish that never completely cured the last time it was refinished, it made an unholy ripping noise. Again, laughter bubbled close to my lips and I reined it in, although for a minute there, I nearly lost it.
Camille’s mouth twitched. I looked away, suppressing the laugh threatening to burst from my lips. The congregation clunked and shuffled to their feet. As one, the human wave rippled, stood, 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. The congregation swiveled in their pews and exchanged worried glances. I suspected a tree limb had fallen in the parking area.
Hopefully, not 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. The heavy drops slid down the panes and pooled on the windowsills. 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 in Livingston County.
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 removed his carton of crayons from his backpack, choosing a red one. 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.”
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 the youngsters please join me up here for—”
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 until the winds picked up again.
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.
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