Nocturne In Ashes: A Riley Forte Suspense Thriller, Book One

by Chase, Joslyn

  Nate handed him a card. “I’m staying over at the clubhouse. If you think of anything else I should know, will you come by?”

  “Will do.” The man gave a two-fingered salute and closed the door.

  CHAPTER 44

  LUNCH WAS A DO-IT-YOURSELF project. All the components were laid out on the big stainless steel counter in the kitchen—deli meats and cheeses, a container of chicken salad, lettuce, pickles, tomatoes, a selection of breads, chips, fruit, and carrot sticks. Nate assembled a sandwich and grabbed a canned soda, joining the others in the dining room. Power to the neighborhood had not been restored and to save gas, the lights were switched off during daylight hours. The weak glow coming through the windows cast the room in gray and Nate sensed its occupants were fighting that enervating effect with a forced jollity. He sat and munched, listening to the bantering conversation. When it hit a lull, he swallowed and leaned forward.

  “Who’s Amanda Horton?” he asked.

  There was a brief hesitation and then Cappy spoke up. “She was a real sweet gal, lived in the neighborhood, on the far side of the lake.”

  “She’s gone, then?”

  Another pause.

  “Yes, she’s gone,” said Brenda.

  “She was well-liked?”

  “I’ll say.” Cappy tipped his chair back and winked. “Teren and Skillet liked her especially well.”

  That evoked a round of titters and a smiling blush from Skillet. Teren’s face was stony, arms crossed over his chest. Skillet returned Cappy’s fire.

  “Johanson spent a good bit of time with her, too, but he did it on the sly.” He slid his tongue across his lips, letting his eyelids drop to half-mast.

  “Nothing sly about it. She was a good friend and a nice woman.”

  “Although she could be a bit of a Nazi when it came to recycling,” Myrna Mayhew said. “Forget to put your green bin out and she’d land on you like a ton of bricks.”

  “She was an environmentalist wacko, and no mistake,” Harper Mayhew agreed.

  “She was passionate about a lot of things,” said Skillet. “I can attest to that.”

  More titters.

  “What happened to her?” Nate asked.

  The tittering stopped and Teren spoke into the silence. “She got drunk and drowned in her own bathtub.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Nate. He sensed an undercurrent in the quiet that followed. Mr. Dawson spoke up.

  “Amanda would have said we brought this volcano on ourselves, a result of greenhouse gasses or something.”

  “And she’d have had a point. The earth is becoming more volatile, thanks to global warming and climate change,” said Skillet.

  “And if you think there’s anything you can do about it, you’re buying into the popular philosophy, but it’s bunk,” Harper responded. “Man is incredibly puny in the face of the earth’s might. Nothing we do, or neglect to do, can significantly affect the workings of the earth. It is how we treat each other that really matters.”

  “Now that’s a crock!” Skillet half stood, then calmed himself and resumed his seat. “It does make a difference how we treat the earth.”

  “Oh, I agree,” said Harper. “It matters very much how we treat the earth, but only in terms of our stewardship over it. We must, of course, care for the earth because that is how responsible human beings behave. But the environmental movement goes way overboard, pushing extreme tactics that serve only a political function and have no real bearing on the environment.”

  Cappy decided to stick his two cents in. “So, you think it’s okay to dump toxic waste in our oceans or bury it where it can leach into the soil?”

  “I think nothing of the sort. I do not advocate for pollution or mindlessly stripping away our resources, or doing anything that will lead to our own destruction, but I believe in an all-powerful God who created this world in which we live and the earth will roll on, under God’s power, for as long as He deems fit.”

  His voice had grown to a rumbling thunder, his hands fisted in front of him on the table. A small silence followed his speech and Myrna smiled at him, covering one of his fists with her hand and giving it a squeeze. “What do you think, Brenda?” she asked, turning to the woman. “Are we contributing to the deterioration of the environment by our actions, or failure to act?”

  Nate understood that Brenda was an avid reader of the Bible and he expected that she would subscribe to Harp’s theory of the puny man, but she surprised him.

  “Absolutely,” she said. “Without a doubt. Our actions are driving climate change and causing an escalation in natural catastrophes, but it’s got nothing to do with forgetting to put out the green bin or flushing the toilet too many times.”

  She looked off, across the room, as if reading the writing on the wall. “The prophets have written, they saw our time, and knew that the earth would be plagued by these things. They gave warning. We have brought this on ourselves, not because we use the wrong kind of light bulbs or drive gas-powered cars, but because we have turned away from our God, forgotten his goodness, spurned his blessings, and incurred his wrath.”

  A general cacophony broke out, with debate on both sides. Nate saw Skillet get up and head toward the kitchen. They made eye contact and Skillet motioned with his head for Nate to join him. The door swung shut behind them, dimming the argument in the dining room.

  “I made dessert,” Skillet said. “It might just be enough to shut them up. Help me serve it.”

  “I thought I wasn’t good enough for kitchen duty?”

  “Oh, get over yourself.”

  Skillet had made individual trifles, citrus-spritzed berries and kiwi layered with a creamy concoction and fudgy chocolate cake.

  “Beautiful,” Nate commented.

  “I hope Mr. Snowden likes it,” Skillet said with a wicked smile.

  “What are you up to, Skillet?”

  “Just trying to impress the big guy.”

  They loaded trays and delivered the goods. Like a miracle, dipping spoons and appreciative murmurings replaced the heated argument and tempers damped to glowing embers, an uneasy peace settling over the company. Skillet presented Mr. Snowden’s double portion with a flourish.

  “Specialty of the House.”

  Snowden seemed hesitant to try it. He picked up his spoon, then set it down again.

  “No?” mewed Skillet. “Very well.” He placed the dessert on his tray and turned away.

  “Wait. I’d like to have it, please.”

  Skillet made a big production of replacing the trifle in front of his finicky customer. The man wielded his spoon with defiance and downed the dessert with growing ardor. Skillet stood by with a satisfied smirk. Nate hoped he had not created a monster.

  He left the dining room and wandered into the lounge. Riley was seated at the piano, head bowed, hands in her lap. She looked bereft. He wanted to reach out, touch her somehow, put his hands on her shoulders or kiss the top of her head, but he couldn’t stand to see her bristle or shrink from him and he was afraid she would. Instead, he stood at her side.

  “Will you give me a lesson?” he asked.

  Her look told him she knew what he was up to, but she slid over and he joined her on the bench.

  “Do you play at all?”

  He demonstrated the extent of his prowess with a two-fingered version of Hot Cross Buns.

  She laughed and Nate felt her come into her element. “Alright, I think we can improve significantly on that with one quick lesson. We’re going to play an improvisational duet.”

  “We are?”

  Riley gave an emphatic nod. “Indeed we are. But there are three rules to this exercise. Rule One, keep to the black keys. Play anything you like, as long as it’s on the black keys. Rule Two, listen. Use your ears. Listen to the sounds as we make them, and form an opinion about what you hear. Rule Three, relax, have fun, and don’t be afraid. Get in there with both hands and just play. You get what I mean? Play. You ready?”

  N
ate felt foolish. He looked around and saw they were not entirely alone in the room.

  Riley pulled his attention back to the keyboard. “Nate, we’re here together, you and I, at the piano. And we’re about to do something significant. Grasp this moment.”

  He swallowed and nodded.

  “Let’s do this.”

  Riley began, rolling out an Habanera beat and Nate felt the spicy undertones of it but didn’t know how to complement it. He sat with one finger poised over the keyboard.

  “Come on in, the water’s fine,” Riley assured him.

  He touched a key, made a plunk. It sounded okay, so he twiddled around a bit, adding another finger to the ensemble.

  “Both hands.” Riley gave him a little nudge with her elbow and he sighed and brought his left hand into play. It felt so awkward at first, but soon he realized that it didn’t sound half bad and he relaxed, falling into the rhythm of Riley’s playing.

  “Are you hearing this?” she said.

  He was. It was amazing, really. He sensed her picking up the volume and the tempo and he responded, keeping pace with her, letting the tones roll out from under his fingers. They built to a crescendo, a big, full sound and Nate felt his heart quicken. After a romp on the keys that left him tingling, they backed it off, and he felt the end, when it came, playing his last notes in unison with hers. There was a burst of applause and Nate turned, surprised and pleased. He nodded his head in a little bow and laughed.

  “You see?” Riley said. “You didn’t know you could do that, did you?”

  “Never saw it coming.”

  “Let’s talk about why we did it.”

  “Because it was spectacular fun.”

  Riley laughed. “It was,” she agreed, “but I like to do that with a new student because it illustrates something so important.”

  She paused. Her cheeks were still pink with pleasure, but her eyes had grown solemn.

  “Music is about relationships. One note by itself,” she played a key, “doesn’t mean much. Not until it’s put into context with other pitches, in a rhythmic structure,” she played a fragment of Moonlight Sonata, “does it really become music. What we did worked because the black keys are all related to each other. They’re like a family, they’re tied together in what’s called a pentatonic scale, and they work well together. When I teach, I emphasize the relationships in the music. I really believe it deepens the meaning and pleasure in playing.”

  He heard the passion in her voice, saw the earnest look in her eyes, and he believed it too.

  “Madame Musician,” he said, “you amaze me.”

  CHAPTER 45

  AFTER THE LAST OF THE lunch crowd wandered off, Riley returned to the kitchen and helped Skillet square things away. She admired his efficiency and the way he kept things organized and spotlessly clean. She listened to his chattering with half an ear while her mind lingered over the duet she’d played with Nate. They’d moved well together and she wished she could summon the easy confidence she’d felt at will, unhampered by fear and guilt. This tarnished her thoughts and she pushed away, mentally, from the piano and began churning over Rico’s murder and the attempted break-in down the street. Were they related? Had it been Cappy? And why was Nate asking about Amanda Horton?

  She was hunkered down in front of a corner cabinet, putting away condiments, when she realized it had gone silent. She backed out of her position and turned around to find that Skillet obstructed her exit from the corner niche. He stood with one hand anchored to the sideboard and the other to the center island, like cordons. It was the kind of teasing move that Skillet was known for, but Riley felt a frisson prickle the back of her scalp.

  “Nate said groups of three, but here we are, just the two of us,” he said, his tone caressing, his eyes capturing hers.

  For an instant, Riley was frightened, but she shook her head, forcing a laugh, and pushed against his arm to get out. The arm wrapped around her, its wiry strength bringing her close, turning her into him and holding her there where she could feel the beat of his heart.

  “I knew him,” he said, his breath hot against her ear. “The rock star. Can you believe that, Riley? He used to frequent my restaurant and give his compliments to the chef, buy me a drink after dinner. We spent some time together, Coby and I.”

  His breath feathered against her neck, sending a shiver through her.

  “I heard what was done to him. Terrible things.” He spoke in a whisper, then spun Riley out and let her go with a suddenness that left her dizzy. His voice rose several decibels.

  “Only someone mentally unhinged would do such things.” He grabbed a meat cleaver from the woodblock and punctuated his words with a Jack Nicholson pose, waiting for her to laugh or slap his face.

  Riley knew he thrived on shock value, but before she could respond, Skillet dropped the act, and the cleaver. He moved his hands over the butts of the knives protruding from the woodblock, then turned and searched the kitchen with frantic eyes.

  “Oh hell,” he said. “One of my knives is missing.”

  CHAPTER 46

  EVERY SOUND ECHOED IN THE gloomy restroom as Marie left the stall and stepped to the sink to wash her hands. The taps were covered with a plastic bag as a reminder. Nate had warned that they should conserve water because it was probably fed by gravity from a storage tank during a power outage and the situation could last for days. He also said the water treatment system might be compromised and not to drink from the tap. They’d filled buckets and pots and gallon jugs to use in the toilets if it came to that.

  She blew out a sigh. This just gets better and better. She dispensed hand sanitizer and squinted into the mirror as she smoothed it over her hands. The shadows in the room cast strange shapes into the hollows of her face, but even in the muted light she could see the emerging wrinkles. No doubt about it, she was past her youth, her looks were sliding. What did Tim see when he looked at her? A face he could love forever, or had he stopped loving her already? The flame inside her had dwindled to a simmer, but now she felt it flare again, searing her stomach. She left the bathroom.

  Most of the group was still assembled in the dining room, lingering over coffee and the last of Skillet’s trifle. Marie stood at the threshold, listening to the murmur of conversation, riding its ebb and flow like a gentle surf, her eyes searching the low-lit dining room. Neither Tim nor Jess was present.

  Marie wanted to ask if anyone had seen where they went, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to make her voice sound normal, wouldn’t be able to fool anyone that everything was okay, and she couldn’t bear to be regarded with scorn or pity. She decided not to draw attention to her marital difficulties. She turned away and started a systematic search through the clubhouse.

  Meeting room C was in the basement, a dank-smelling room used only as a last resort. No one had chosen to set up camp in its far reaches and to access it, you had to go through a vestibule. Marie opened the outer door and it let out a screech like a sack full of angry cats. She could no longer count on the element of surprise, so she crossed the vestibule and yanked open the door to the meeting room. Jess whirled to meet her, wisps of silver hair floating out from her face as if she were a mermaid under water, dust motes floating on the air around her twinkled like stars. She was alone.

  “What are you doing down here?” asked Marie.

  Jess swung an arm toward the long wall of the L-shaped room. “Not that it’s any business of yours, but I’m finding the local history very interesting. I didn’t know all this was down here.”

  Marie looked at the series of framed photos, plaques, and mementos. They were dry and dusty, black and white images from the past.

  “Doesn’t strike me as your sort of thing.”

  “You talk like you think you know something.”

  “Don’t I?” She paused. “Where’s Tim?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Marie stared at the barred exit, the only other door from the room. Had Tim slipped out that way? Had ther
e been time? She looked back at her rival and felt herself shrinking, some part of her vital essence evaporating into the shadows. She struggled to get control of her quivering vocal cords, then turned and left the room.

  CHAPTER 47

  THE KILLER ZIPPED OPEN THE duffle bag with a savage yank, his hands shaking, heart pumping. A sprawl of houses adorned the two short ends of the long, narrow lake and spread along its eastern flank, but the west side of the lake was mostly forest land. A paved trail ran its length, just wide enough to serve as a cart path for those who lived on the far side to access the golf course and a few narrow trails led off into a stand of trees beside the lake or up into the hills above Mountain Vista.

  The killer was in that little knot of trees, pulling out the stones and strips of wood he’d gathered earlier. He laid the pieces out and began assembling them, laying the three types of wood with the stones in the prescribed manner. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, calming himself, allowing her voice to enter his head, listening for her instruction.

  That smarter-than-thou geologist had made his choice so easy. The self-righteous pedant with his scientific numbers and theories, acting as if he had an inkling of an understanding about the Earth and her needs and demands. Still she trembled, still her wrath vented, scorching hot, from the depths of her soul. There was no television or radio or internet to tell him this. He knew it, she whispered it to him. She loved him.

  He drew the knife from the duffle bag, inspecting it in the weak sunlight. He’d taken it from the kitchen just before lunch, slipping it up his sleeve, walking casually past the storage closet, stopping to chat with the Dawsons and circling back after they moved on. He slipped into the closet and squeezed behind the stacks of folded chairs to where he’d stashed the duffle, adding the knife to his collection of items. It had been easy.

  It was a carving knife with a good heft, and it fit well enough into an old sheath he took from home. He drew it forth and tested it, running his thumb down the blade, feeling the razor edge, but with a pressure so light and teasing that it merely split the top layer of skin and drew no blood. A good chef keeps his knives sharp.