Spirit Me Away
A Gus LeGarde Mystery
Aaron Paul Lazar
This is a work of fiction. All concepts, characters and events portrayed in this book are used fictitiously and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Aaron Paul Lazar.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
First Edition, May, 2014
Cover art by Kellie Dennis
Published in the United States of America.
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Devil’s Lake
Bittersweet Hollow, book 1
Two years ago, Portia Lamont disappeared from a small town in Vermont, devastating her parents and sister, who spent every waking hour searching for her. When she suddenly shows up on their horse farm in a stolen truck with a little mutt on her lap, they want to know what happened. Was she taken? Or did she run away?
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You’re about to dive into Spirit Me Away, book 8 in the LeGarde Mystery series. If you enjoy it, I hope you’ll consider leaving a review on Amazon. It doesn’t have to be long or fancy—just a few lines about what you liked best or how the book made you feel is perfectly fine.
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- Aaron Paul Lazar
Dedication
To all the flower children of the world, past and present. Peace, man.
Chapter 1
June 28, 1969
The girl slumped on a park bench clutching a battered old guitar case. Long copper curls tumbled forward in an untidy mass, nearly obscuring her eyes. She covered her face with her hands, and it was at that moment I noticed her shoulders shaking.
The poor thing was crying.
Concerned, I stepped closer to the balcony railing to get a better look, wondering what was wrong.
I’d just wandered out to our terrace after working for two solid hours on my music theory homework. I needed fresh air, because I didn’t think my brain could process any more post tonal theory, 12-tone series, octotonic scales, or especially the impossible analysis of Bartok's String Quartet Number 4, first movement. And although the scenes on the Boston Public Garden were usually quite lively, filled with hippies sitting cross-legged on the grass, mothers pushing strollers, and dogs chasing Frisbees, I hadn’t expected to see this poor creature sobbing on the park bench.
I called to Elsbeth, who’d been playing a salty Brazilian tango on our beat-up baby grand. “Honey? Can you come here for a minute?”
The expression in Elsbeth’s dark eyes swung from musical enchantment to mild curiosity. She pushed back from the piano and joined me on the balcony. “What is it?”
I pointed to the girl. “Over there.”
My wife peered across Beacon Street to the sidewalk bordering the park, where the girl sat on the bench, weeping harder now.
“Oh, the poor thing. Another lost flower child.”
“Yeah.” A pang of empathy banged through me, which was always a bad sign. It meant I’d probably do something I’d regret. Regardless, I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the girl, who looked to be about our age, maybe eighteen or twenty. She wore typical hippie garb, like most of our Bean Town flower children, with patched bellbottom jeans, sandals, a tie-dyed tee shirt, and a suede vest with beaded fringe.
I slid my arm around Elsbeth’s waist, watching the street below bustling with activity. Groups of vibrant young hippies, flowing with beads, long hair, and whorls of colorful fabric, tripped and laughed, floating across the park to gather and play music.
Fat pigeons gathered and cooed at the girl’s feet, as if in tune with her sorrow. Their green metallic feathers winked in the sunlight.
Strains of the Doors’ “Break on Through” wafted from someone’s transistor radio. Taxis, cars, and buses engorged with passengers trundled past, honking and billowing black smoke. Throngs of businessmen hurried through the park, dressed in neatly pressed suits and crisp white shirts, ignoring the forlorn figure on the bench.
No one stopped.
No one gave her a second glance.
I turned to my wife. “We can’t leave her there.”
“I know.” She grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the door. “Come on.”
We hurried down one flight of stairs and crossed the street.
The Boston Public Garden—a grassy, expansive square that was home to the famous swan boats—teemed with people and mirrored its sister park, the Boston Common. Up until 1830, livestock actually grazed on the grass of America’s oldest public park. Charles Street neatly bisected both the Commons and the Gardens, as the locals affectionately called them. Venerable old streets with names like Tremont, Park, Boylston, and Beacon enclosed the greenery.
The girl’s shoulders continued to shake and long sobs wracked her body.
We approached her slowly.
“Honey?” Elsbeth said. “What’s wrong? Can we help you?”
“Huh?” The girl sniffled and looked up. Her orange granny glasses had slipped down her nose. Dusky violet eyes flashed with confusion and tears streamed along her cheeks. A large, oily spot stained her vest, her jeans were recently ripped and the knee bloodied, and her forehead was smudged.
“Miss?” I said. “Do you need help?”
She glanced from me to Elsbeth and back again. Her shoulders hitched once, and she lowered her face into her hands. “I don’t know,” she wailed in a shaky voice. “I just don’t know.”
Elsbeth perched beside her on the bench, and I couldn’t help but notice how different they looked. Elsbeth was brown-eyed and pale-skinned, with long, dark, curly hair pulled back in a mother-of-pearl clasp at the nape of her neck. She wore a black turtleneck, tapered jeans, and comfortable buckskin shoes. Her lipstick, in a deep shade of rose, was strategically applied to appear natural, and emphasized her full, bow-shaped lips. This lost girl had masses of wild hair the color of sunlight on amaretto, a beautiful cherry-gold. Her fair skin was flawless, and her eyes reminded me of purple grapes held to the sunlight.
Elsbeth tried again. “Honey? What’s your name?”
The girl hiccupped and looked at her guitar case, plastered in fluorescent stickers boasting the words “Flower Power,” “Peace,” and “Love Rules.” A tag hung from the handle. She touched it nervously.
“May I?” I asked.
She nodded. “Sure.”
I leaned down and flipped the nametag around. A single name was scribbled in bubbly handwriting. “Valerie,” I read aloud. “Is that you?”
Slanting her eyes at Elsbeth, then at me, she finally stared down at her hands. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure this is my guitar.” She began to cry in earnest again.
Elsbeth slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Listen. Why don’t you come inside with us? We’ll give you something to eat and get you cleaned up. After that, we can try to figure out what happened to you. How’s that sound?”
Valerie, if that was her name, looked at Elsbeth, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Okay,” she said in a small voice. “Maybe just for a few minutes.”
Chapter 2
An hour later, Valerie sat at
our kitchen table wearing Elsbeth’s robe. A towel wrapped her freshly washed hair, and a few glossy red ringlets escaped from it, dangling wet across her cheek. She shifted on the chair, revealing a purple bruise on her thigh and a banged-up, bloodied knee.
Elsbeth drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, Valerie. That looks painful.”
“Oh.” Valerie glanced down at the purple blotch. “It’s pretty sore, but I have no clue how I got it.” Cheeks flushing, she quickly covered her leg, then went back to sipping her Campbell’s vegetable soup. She’d already eaten an almond butter sandwich on rice cakes and had drained two glasses of goat milk.
The girl’s skin glowed from the shower, but her eyes still looked murky and confused.
“More milk?” I asked, watching her carefully. It has to be drugs, her eyes have that look.
She shook her head. “No thanks.”
“Let’s fix up that knee, hon.” Elsbeth reached for her first aid kit and flipped open the metal cover. She gently applied some antibiotic ointment, then extracted a large square bandage and peeled off the paper. “Here you go, sweetie.” Gently, she applied the Band-Aid. “So, after you’ve eaten, we’ll go through your guitar case and see if there’s anything inside that sparks a memory. How’s that sound?”
Valerie nodded, but her eyes had begun to droop and she covered a yawn. “Sure. You can look inside,” she said. “But I might have to take a little—” Her eyes rolled up in her head.
I leapt from my chair and caught her before she landed in her soup.
“Nice catch, Gus.” Elsbeth trilled a laugh and rushed to her side. “Oh, the poor thing. She’s gotta be exhausted.”
We helped her up and carried her, limp and moaning, to our bedroom, because I didn’t think our roommates would appreciate us commandeering their beds. I set her down on my side of the bed while Elsbeth turned down the white chenille bedspread, plumping up the pillows.
After we laid her down and covered her, Elsbeth sat beside her, stroking her forehead as if she were a child. “Poor thing,” she whispered.
I leaned against the wall and waited while she tended to Valerie. Scanning the collection of photographs on our nightstand, I couldn’t help but think—once again—how damned lucky I was.
In my favorite snapshot, Elsbeth stands on the beach in her white cotton dress and shawl. Silver blue threads wink from the scarf’s silky fringe. Dark curls blow around her face. As if I were still there, I could almost taste the salty breeze on the air, and hear the gulls screeching in the background. In the photo, an enigmatic smile plays on her lips, and the gold band on the fourth finger of her left hand sparkles in the sunshine.
We’d been married May 1st, 1969 by a young pastor in Brewster, Massachusetts on Crosby Beach at low tide. Miles of rippled sand glimmered in the sunset. I remembered the hermit crabs scuttling in tide pools and birds sailing overhead, the wind whistling through sea grass, and sailboats on the horizon, winking in the golden light.
Mesmerized, I stared at the photo. We’d decided to elope at the last minute before signing the lease on our new brownstone apartment. Our good friend and one of our roommates, Byron Cunningham, was our witness and only wedding guest. We hadn’t told our parents about the ceremony in spite of the fact we knew they’d have a fit when they found out. I had a feeling my mother would mourn the loss of a big white wedding with flowers, and girls in fancy dresses. But neither Elsbeth nor I could afford such a fuss. We planned to go home for Labor Day, and tell our parents together. If they insisted, we’d let them plan another party, with all the trappings, if they wanted to pay for it.
We’d been engaged for years, and this recent impulsive decision was linked more to primal longing than anything else.
Sure, keeping two places while attending the New England Conservatory in Boston was ridiculously expensive, so it made sense to join forces from that perspective, too. And Elsbeth’s strict German upbringing prohibited us from living together, even though it was becoming more and more common in every day society. So, we tied the knot and hadn’t looked back.
Elsbeth unwrapped the towel from Valerie’s hair and arranged her locks on the pillow.
I smiled at her, and picked up our wedding album while she fussed with the girl, smoothing her covers and singing softly to her. I flipped through the album to find one of my favorite shots where Byron caught us kissing on the beach after the ceremony.
The pearly-gold setting sun silhouetted our profiles. I smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed, reminiscing while I rotated my new ring around my fourth finger. I thought back to the pleasant evening we’d spent at a beach campfire after the ceremony with Byron.
Although it was officially May Day, we did not dance around a maypole that evening. After singing songs and sharing a few glasses of sweet apple wine, we’d waltzed off to an exorbitantly priced, tiny beach house for a glorious one-night honeymoon. Byron had thoughtfully slept in the van.
“Look at her, Gus. She looks so innocent.”
I turned toward the girl, and Elsbeth was right. Childlike, she lay with slightly parted lips against Elsbeth’s pillow. Her hair had begun to dry, and the late afternoon sun dappled through the window, causing auburn highlights to shimmer.
“Do you think she’s on drugs?” I asked.
Elsbeth frowned. “I’m not sure. Her bruises and the stains on her clothes look like she could’ve wandered away from a car crash, or something like that.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Could be. That would account for her disorientation. She’s not hallucinating, and she doesn’t smell like pot.” I got up and paced. “I hope you’re right. The cops may know something.”
“Call them, Gus. See if there’ve been any accidents around here today. And ask if there were any young women reported missing.”
I nodded obediently. Elsbeth could be demanding at times, but she was usually right.
She shooed me out of the room, then backed out and quietly closed the door. “Should we take a peek at the guitar case first?” she asked in a low whisper.
“Good idea.” I led her down the back hall and into the living room where the beat-up case lay on our sofa. “Let’s see what’s inside.”
Chapter 3
Elsbeth and I sat side by side on the couch we’d picked up at a yard sale the week before. Small and shabby, it was ugly, but comfortable. We hid the stains on the cushions by flipping them over, and for the price of ten dollars, we’d added it to our nondescript living room.
I set the guitar case on the scarred coffee table, which was hand-hewn and rustic, and made from one thick slab of unfinished wood with four stout legs. We’d found it at the same yard sale, much cheaper, for only four dollars.
I flipped up three metal latches on the side of the case and opened the cover. Instead of a guitar, an old lute nestled among a pile of clothing and papers. I handed it to Elsbeth. “Funny looking guitar,” I said, joking with her. We’d both studied a wide variety of instruments during our freshman year, but aside from a little proficiency with an acoustic guitar, the only one we’d both mastered was the piano.
Elsbeth snorted a laugh, covering her mouth as if she were afraid she’d wake our guest. “Yeah. Who would guess there was a lute in here?” She strummed the strings. “I think it’s in tune,” she said, “but these things are pretty tricky to play.” She experimented with it, found and strummed a few chords, then set it beside her on the couch.
“Let’s see what else is in here.” I studied a poster taped inside the guitar case cover. “Woodstock Music and Art Fair presents...An Aquarian Exposition,” I read. “Wallkill, New York. August 15, 16, and 17.”
“Ooo,” Elsbeth purred, leaning closer to see it. “That’s the one I’ve been telling you about. Rumor is they’re changing the location to somewhere else in the Catskills, though. Isn’t it cool?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
“They’re supposed to have all of the coolest bands. The Who, Joan Baez, Jefferson Airplane, Jimi Hendrix, Jeff Beck, Coun
try Joe and the Fish, Janis Joplin...” Her eyes shone. She’d mentioned this concert a number of times over the past few weeks and I knew she badly wanted to go.
Just because Elsbeth majored in classical piano performance didn’t mean she hated rock. No, she loved it, and it seemed to titillate her as much as the prettiest Chopin mazurka. She’d fallen hard for Mick Jagger and Jim Morrison, and I often found her mooning over their album covers when she listened to their music. I had to admit, I enjoyed listening to it when we made love in our squeaky old bed, because there was something very earthy and basic about the throbbing bluesy beat.
So, I bore her fascination with rock music without complaint. Although the blues riffs in some of the new music intrigued me, I preferred the original blues pianists and singers like John Lee Hooker, Pinetree Perkins, and Lightning Hopkins. I also loved folk artists like Peter, Paul and Mary, Tom Rush, and Joni Mitchell.
But I had to admit, I wasn’t really very cool, because my true passion lay with the classics and there, I was afraid, they would remain. So, you could call me an egghead, square, or a nerd. I think they all would fit in some respect, especially since I avoided drugs and wild parties, and preferred hanging out alone or with my wife than in any other social venue.
I practiced piano all the time, but my wife had more talent in her little finger than I had in all ten fingers and toes. That said, I managed to play well enough to get accepted into the Conservatory. And even though I’d pictured myself playing in the greatest concert halls of Europe at one point in my youth, I’d finally come to terms with the fact that I’d never be like Elsbeth, who would most likely end up touring the world to international acclaim.
I had switched from a performance major to music pedagogy the previous semester.
Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.
That was me.
After failing my music theory class in the spring semester, I had signed up to re-take it this summer, with Elsbeth’s help.
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