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

by Chase, Joslyn

  “Right,” said Nate.

  Rick caught the aroma of fried onions and peppers as the door opened and their dinners arrived, a sizzling plate heaped with steak fajitas for Nate, fish tacos for he and Riley.

  Nate loaded up a tortilla and used it to gesture at Riley.

  “The experts analyzed the evidence we collected off the island. To my mind, it confirmed Teren as the perpetrator, but it’s a good thing we didn’t have to take it to court. He was a hell of a careful killer.”

  Riley blew on a forkful of steaming rice, her face mournful. “Did you ever find out what Cappy Johanson was up to with his late-night skulking around?” she asked.

  “We did,” Nate replied. “He was looting the neighbors. We found a load of valuables in his basement, pilfered from houses in the neighborhood. Charges are pending.”

  “Oh dear,” said Riley. “And we’re losing Skillet. Do you want to hear how he completed his revenge on our big shot, Mr. Snowden?”

  “Of course.”

  “Snowden fell in love with Skillet’s cooking and hired him to head up the kitchen at his German restaurant in Seattle.”

  “Fantastic!” Nate said. “But I’m not sure I’d call that revenge.”

  “Oh, here’s the revenge part,” Riley continued. “Skillet made it a condition of his acceptance that Snowden must address him at all times as ‘Chef.’”

  “So?”

  “In German, ‘Chef’ means ‘the boss.’”

  Nate laughed.

  “And,” Riley stopped to wipe her mouth with a napkin. “If Snowden makes him angry, Skillet says he’ll give him a gift.”

  “Okay…?”

  “Which, in German, means poison.”

  “Ah! Well played, Skillet. I trust he won’t actually poison the old man.”

  “Probably not. I heard something crazy happened with the Sheriff’s deputy. Will you fill me in on that?”

  Nate opened his mouth to speak, but a flash of movement on the television screen caught Rick’s eye and he turned up the volume.

  “…uncovered a curious angle on the governor’s evacuation order that got thousands moving before Rainier erupted. It appears the press release which prompted the governor’s actions was unauthorized, leaked to the media by this man, John Harrigan.”

  A photograph of a man with unruly tufts of blond hair appeared on the screen, his brown eyes uncrinkled by the faint smile that touched his lips.

  “Harrigan, a volcanologist associated with the Seismology…”

  Riley shot up, bumping the table as she stood. Rick saw the color drain from her face, her eyes rapt, glued to the TV.

  “That’s him,” she said. “That’s the man who killed Teren.”

  Nate studied the man’s image. “Are you sure?”

  Riley speared him with her gaze. “Absolutely.”

  Pulling the phone from his pocket, Nate paced the room, speaking in low tones while Rick watched, bemused. He was thinking about Riley, reflecting on conversations he’d had with powerful men regarding her unique talents.

  She was still staring at the screen when Nate threw some bills on the table.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Rick, will you make sure Riley gets home safe? Good job on the ID, Riley. We’re on this.”

  They watched his hasty departure. Riley sank back onto the cushioned bench seat.

  “Well done, indeed, Riley,” Rick said, reaching across to Nate’s plate. “Now I can steal the man’s tortillas with impunity.”

  She looked shell-shocked, and his attempt at humor slid past, unnoticed. He gripped her hand, squeezing and warming it.

  “Drink some water, Riley Forte,” he prompted, “and pull yourself together. There’s something we need to discuss.”

  CHAPTER 102

  THE CURTAIN OPENED. RILEY STEPPED onto the stage, bowing to the audience, smiling past the hot, beaming lights. She turned toward the piano and took the first steps on what was always the longest walk, the distance stretching out and holding all the possibilities of triumph and disaster.

  This time, she felt something new in that walk. Her music, her gift, gave her power. It emanated from her in waves of energy and sheer, potent emotion. She had wielded that power as a separator, in some way holding herself aloof, even from those she loved, making those most vital connections more symbolic than real.

  And this had been her shame. The wasted opportunities, the moments of reaching out and almost touching, but always drawing back, keeping herself apart. She’d been too frightened, and too self-centered.

  An image formed in her head, a vision of tree branches, crossed and intertwining. Up on the ridge, she’d run from Nate, slipping on crumbling soil and sliding down a jagged chute to land with a hard thump on her backside, knocking the wind out of her. As she lay catching her breath, she’d stared up at the network of boughs overhead, their needles interspersing, leaning on one another as the clouds of ash and mist swirled around them.

  The image was sharp and clear in her mind, stamped with meaning. She held it as a talisman, a token of her determination to stretch, to connect, and use her talent for something outside herself.

  She sat, adjusting the bench, centering her focus in the opening chords of Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu. She’d had only a few short weeks to prepare for this performance and she’d opted to follow the program from her disastrous comeback concert, gritting her teeth and getting back on the horse.

  She struck the opening chord, letting it resonate, floating on the air like a burst of thunder. Then her fingers started moving and she was lost in the music, swept away by passion and emotion, and by the joy of sharing it. She rode the wave into the final stretch.

  Exhilaration filled her as she reached the crowning piece, the Beethoven Sonata which had been her stumbling block. Her hands felt nimble, her mind sure and steady. She could do this. She produced the solemn tones of the opening “Grave” from “Sonata Pathetique.” It had always seemed to her like a musical conversation, an interchange between sweet supplication and stormy rebuke. As the clean lines penned by Beethoven emerged from the piano, Riley’s heart sang. She had no desire to flee.

  She finished to unanimous applause, bowing her pleasure and gratitude for the evening. She wished Jim and Tanner could be there, in the audience, giving her another chance to be the wife and mother she should have been, another chance to let them reach and touch her. A brief stab of pain, but she let it go. She was working through her guilt, in all its emanations. The power it held over her, to defeat and paralyze, was waning, and tonight it was low enough to stomp on. She felt light, almost floating.

  Though every hand clapped, the applause sounded thin in the immensity of the auditorium. There were only twelve people in attendance. This concert was ‘invitation only’ and twelve constituted a full house. She walked down to meet them.

  Nate clasped his hands and raised them over his head in a victory salute, his grin so big it nearly reached his ears. He grabbed a sheaf of yellow roses, tipped with a red blush.

  “Bravo! You were incredible!”

  She flushed, relief and bliss flooding over her.

  “I did it. I’m so happy I didn’t crash and burn. Again.”

  “I am so impressed by you, lady.” He pulled her into a massive hug and whispered into her ear. “And so glad I met you.”

  Rick stepped close.

  “Okay, you two, break it up. Riley you were terrific.”

  He handed her another bouquet, white roses interspersed with blossoms of scarlet.

  “The red ones are nasturtiums,” he said. “They stand for victory in battle. And,” he waggled his eyebrows, “you can eat them. Beauty and functionality. Reminds me of someone I know.”

  Riley’s eyes grew watery and she shook her head, determined not to cry. She put her arms around both men, hugging them to her.

  “Thank you so much for sharing this with me. This audience may be small, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt the pressure of performance so mu
ch as tonight. Rick, you really know how to put a girl through the wringer.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Bobbi, joining the group. She embraced Riley, congratulating her. “That was the best concert I’ve attended all year.”

  “And the only one?” Riley smiled.

  “Not by a long shot.”

  The other nine audience members stood in a loose knot near a side exit, conversing in low tones. Riley looked at them, an anxious lump forming in her throat. As she and Rick had finished their fish tacos at Chico’s, he’d told her what he’d been doing since they’d met on the ridge, and how anxious these people were to meet her.

  “They were very interested in a talented lady who can think and analyze patterns at a glance. Plus, you’ve got a built-in beautiful cover, and it’s not just your skin I’m talking about. A concert pianist can open a lot of doors.”

  They’d talked until Chico’s put up the ‘CLOSED’ sign.

  “If you’re agreeable, I’ll arrange a meet. They put me through one hell of an audition, and you’ll get one too. In your case, a concert.”

  Riley met Rick’s gaze as he offered his elbow.

  “Are you ready?”

  She nodded.

  “Let’s go meet the future.”

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For Terry, the steady rock in my stream.

  Thank you to everyone who has encouraged me during the writing of the book. A big thanks to all the faithful and helpful readers on my blog, Story Chase at joslynchase.com.

  I owe a debt of gratitude to my two best sounding boards, Terry Giles and Daniel Higley for their enthusiastic support and the many motivating conversations we had while I was formulating the book.

  A big thanks to U.S. Army helicopter pilot, Mike Welch for giving me help and direction with the helicopter scenes. I’d also like to thank Chief Ryan Spurling, Chief Deputy North Mason Sheriff Department, Elizabeth Westby of the United States Geological Survey, Priscilla Fleischer, Ph.D., Nan Barker, U.S. Army librarian, Corene McDaniel, reference librarian at Timberland Regional Library, and Kyle Imhoff, a Pennsylvania State Climatologist.

  Any and all errors and inaccuracies are purely my own and should not be laid at the feet of any of the experts I consulted.

  Thank you to Dean Wesley Smith for helping me with the back-cover blurb and description, and for generously imparting great wisdom on the craft and business of writing.

  I owe a healthy portion of thanks to Joanna Penn for her generosity in always sharing what she has learned for the benefit of others, and for her book mid-wivery efforts and skills. I never could have delivered this baby without her.

  I’m grateful to Lisl Fleckner for help with proofreading and the final edits.

  I thank my friends with an eye for design, Nick Thomas and Tyler Angel, for giving me guidance during my angst over the front cover.

  Credit for the band name, Downed Illusion, and for the lead singer, Coby Waters, goes to Jay and Sherrie Johnson.

  Dulcie Larsen came up with two of the T-shirt ideas: “Just when you thought it was safe to go hiking,” and “This is Rainier. This is Rainier on crack.”

  A special thank you to my beta readers: Terry Giles, Sherrie Johnson, Jay Johnson, Daniel Higley, Dulcie Larsen, and Barbara Jensen-Marlow.

  Most of all, I thank my family for giving me the time to make this happen.

  AUTHOR NOTES

  Idea and Inspiration

  For as long as I can remember, I have loved stories that give me a chill and a tingle, that keep me in a terror of trepidation over who to believe and who to trust. That element of psychological suspense, often mirrored by physical peril, is the hallmark of my best-loved type of book or movie.

  One of my favorite old-school authors is Mary Stewart. So many of her novels carry that delicious brand of tension. Decades ago, I read one her books, Wildfire At Midnight, and though I later forgot many of the specifics of the story, it contains a scene implanted so vividly in my memory that I will never forget the prickles up my spine and the lip-biting, unbearably tense anticipation of one particular scene from that book.

  When I arrived at the time in my life where I could begin to write the stories simmering on the back burners of my mind, that scene is the first that sprang to mind. I wanted to write a story based on that general idea, with a scene modeled after that one.

  Mary Stewart’s original is set on the island of Skye in the Scottish Hebrides. The elements which make it so compelling include the fact that it’s an isolated island, shrouded in an all-encompassing mist which hampers visiblity and distorts sound, and there is a killer among the company. The scene I so admire involves the heroine fleeing in a panic through a thick fog and running straight into a bog where she must freeze and remain still or give herself away by the quaking ground. The other side of the coin, of course, is that she can tell by the quivering earth, when someone is approaching her, but she cannot see who it is. To heighten the tension, she suspects her lover might be the killer and she doesn’t know who, if anyone, she can trust. Intense.

  Of course, I didn’t want to copy Ms. Stewart’s book, but I wanted to capture the same kind of tone and situation. Where could I set my story to create an isolated situation? A boat, a plane, a spaceship, a speeding train or bus? They’ve all been done. Frankly, most everything’s been done. Islands have certainly been done, but what if I could put a twist on my island that hasn’t been done, or at least not overdone. I’ve never heard of another story with exactly the setup I’ve written here.

  Although I lived in Germany when I wrote the bulk of this story, I’m from the Puget Sound area. A major part of the landscape in that corner of the world is the majestic Mt. Rainier, and that got me thinking. I did some research and unearthed some pretty scary stuff. Mt. Rainier, an active volcano, is primed to blow. It’s not a matter of if, only a question of how soon.

  I discovered that Rainier’s western flank, the one aimed in my direction, has been weakened over many centuries due to sulphuric acid, mixed with rain and snow, seeping through the rock, altering it into a clay-like substance. When she blows, that will be the most likely outlet, and the results are predicted to be beyond devastating, the most destructive natural disaster in the history of the United States.

  I constructed a scenario where this happens, and the displacement of water in the Puget Sound and its appendages is so great, as a result of the massive lahars, that even my distant perch in Mason County is affected. Surrounded by water, as we are, we frequently deal with flooding, even without such a disaster as this. With these conditions in place, I could set my story in a fictional version of my own neighborhood, transforming it into a virtual island.

  Anyone who lives in my neighborhood and reads this book will recognize the area, but let me stress that Mountain Vista and its surrounds are fictional, based loosely on an existing locale. I took many liberties with the setting and covered everything over with a thick layer of my imagination. To reiterate a statement from the copyright page:

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or per
sons, living or dead, is fictionalized or coincidental.

  In addition to the element of isolation, the thick fog that obstructed the heroine’s vision in Mary Stewart’s book is the other component that made the scene so chillingly effective. I read many accounts, during my research, of ashfall obscuring vision and disorienting people, acting much like a thick fog, and there it was—my answer. The eruption of Mt. Rainier could isolate my characters in an island-like environment and shroud them in a disorienting curtain of falling ash, thus creating a similar atmosphere in which to set my story.

  That scene, where Riley crouches in the shifting ashfall while Nate creeps by, whispering her name, is the kernel of the novel, the idea that started it all. The rest of the story unfolded from there.

  Riley Forte

  I studied classical piano and teach private lessons. Becoming a concert pianist was never my aim—I don’t have the temperament or the technique for it—but I can go there in my imagination. For years, I have thought about creating a character, a concert pianist who can move freely to venues around the world as a cover for investigating various crimes. That’s how Riley was born.

  Riley learned her method of teaching from me. I took the lesson scenes straight from the way I teach my own students. I almost always play an improvisational duet with a new student at our first lesson together, and it’s almost always brilliant, and an eye-opener. And I do have framed Magic Eye pictures that I use to illustrate the point that printed music is just dots on paper to the untrained eye, but when you learn how to focus correctly and identify the shapes and patterns, the big picture emerges and radically changes what you see, infusing it with life and interest beyond expectation.

  I gave Riley a famous jazz pianist grandfather, Zach Riley, for whom she was named. She grew up immersed in music, bred to it. So when she met James Forte, she knew she’d marry him. It was just too perfect. As a result, I think she always kept him at a slight distance, not wanting to mar the perfection of his image, promising herself someday she’d do the work to let him in and really connect. When he died before she took that chance, it devastated her, flooding her with a guilt she couldn’t identify. The guilt and sorrow stymied her, paralyzing her ability to perform. Her career stalled until she could pinpoint the cause and quality of that guilt and take steps to form real connections with the people in her life.