In a little over a week Helaine Mario's Shadow Music third in her books featuring Maggie O'Shea releases from Oceanview Publishing so I thought it would be fun to have a little teaser post to get you all ready for it. Be sure and check back on release day because Helaine is sponsoring a FABULOUS giveaway.
Enjoy the teaser!
It all started in 2015 with The Lost Concerto when readers were first introduced to Maggie
Here's a link to my feature-https://bit.ly/3ndq25d
SILVER WINNER: 2016 IBPA Benjamin Franklin Awards
FINALIST: 2016 National Indie Excellence Awards
FINALIST: 2016 International Book Award – Mystery/Suspense Category
A woman and her young son flee to a convent on a remote island off the Breton coast of France. Generations of seafarers have named the place Ile de la Brume, or Fog Island. In a chapel high on a cliff, a tragic death occurs and a terrified child vanishes into the mist.
The child’s godmother, Maggie O’Shea, haunted by the violent deaths of her husband and best friend, has withdrawn from her life as a classical pianist. But then a recording of unforgettable music and a grainy photograph surface, connecting her missing godson to a long-lost first love.
The photograph will draw Maggie inexorably into a collision course with criminal forces, decades-long secrets, stolen art and musical artifacts, and deadly terrorists. Her search will take her to the Festival de Musique, Aix-en-Provence, France, where she discovers answers to her husband’s death, an unexpected love—and a musical masterpiece lost for decades.
A compelling blend of suspense, mystery, political intrigue, and romance, The Lost Concerto explores universal themes of loss, vengeance, courage, and love.
Here's my blog feature for Dark Rhapsody-http://bit.ly/2Lz8uef
Perfect for fans of Sandra Brown and Iris Johannsen.
In 1945, an Austrian girl discovers a priceless Nazi treasure near a remote alpine lake and sets in motion a decades-old secret that will change lives for generations to come.
Many years later, classical pianist Maggie O'Shea is preparing her return to the world of music. Instead, a nightmare of a haunting rhapsody and hundreds of roses from a deranged stalker propel her into a world of terror. Forces drive her to revisit the mystery of her mother's death, her father's startling disappearance, and a terrible secret from World War II. Maggie finds herself on a collision course with a brutal, disfigured killer who threatens those she holds dear—an aging pianist with a long-buried secret, a haunted cellist, a charismatic Maestro, and the crusty retired colonel she has come to love.
Chord by chord, Rachmaninoff's Rhapsody becomes the heart of this story of profound loss, courage and love. Music tells our stories ...
And on 9-21 Shadow Music will release and Helaine's publisher Oceanview Publishing has graciously given me permission to share an exclusive excerpt with my readers of the Prologue and Chapter 1.
Read an excerpt:
SHADOW MUSIC
PROLOGUE
THE
HUNGARIAN BORDER
APRIL,
1985
One
final flash of light caught the faces of the two women hiding in the trees.
Then the sun disappeared beyond the hills.
As the
air filled with purple light, edges blurred, shadows lengthened. It was the
time of day when shapes grew indistinct, when it became much harder to see. It
was both a blessing and a curse.
The women crouched beside a tumble of broken stones in a copse
of birch trees that stood, close and dark, on the crest of a low hill. Below
them, a meadow of waving grasses sloped toward a rushing stream. On the
stream’s far bank, a curve of dirt road. Remnants of rusting barbed wire and
broken electric fencing flashed silver in the last of the light.
Beyond
the stream, Austria. Freedom.
Donata Kardos, the younger of the two, lifted her
chin to listen. No truck engine. But no beat of horse hooves, either. No
searchlight spearing the dusk, no howl of the dogs. This land, so close to the
natural barrier of Lake Neusiedl, was no longer heavily patrolled. Now the only
sounds were the brush of new April leaves in the evening breeze and the whisper
of geese wings, high overhead, coming home.
Home. She searched the meadow, the ribbon of road just
beyond the fence, the shallow stream where she had played as a child. Water,
swollen by spring rains, frothed over stones covered in moss.
Donata turned to gaze over her shoulder. The burned-out
shell of the once beautiful old abbey rose behind her, the ancient stones
etched black against the darkening sky. She would never study her beloved
theology texts within those thick walls or walk in the shaded cloisters. She
would never take her vows there and pray freely in the abbey’s now-silent
gardens.
Her
parents rarely spoke of those fearful days after World War II, when the Soviet
tanks had invaded her country, rumbling into the towns, imprisoning their
leaders, setting fire to schools and churches and culture and lives. The Iron
Curtain had slammed down years before she was born, and her future had
disappeared like the abbey’s red embers, spinning high into the starless night
sky. The Soviets—and Hungary’s Secret Police—had closed not only the borders,
but so many of the minds and hearts of her countrymen as well. If only—
Strong
fingers gripped her arm, wrenching her back to the present.
“Where is
the truck, Donata? You said your cousin would be here by now!”
Donata
turned to the young woman who knelt on the earth beside her—her closest friend
since the age of two, when Tereza and her family had moved into the Budapest
apartment next to hers. If she closed her eyes, she could still hear the
gorgeous strains of Tereza’s father’s violin through the thin walls . . .
Now
Tereza was just eighteen, so petite and rounded, with waist-length hair the
color of rubies. While she was just the opposite—three years younger, tall and
whip-thin, her shaggy jet hair cropped short. In the gathering dusk, Tereza’s ivory skin was
almost translucent, her beautiful blaze of hair hidden beneath a drab gray
shawl and her body stiff with growing fear.
Donata
put a reassuring hand on her friend’s arm. “Pavel will come. Have faith, Reza.”
She saw
the disbelief in the wide blue eyes, too bright with tension above the long
dark coat. Tereza Janos turned away with an impatient shake of her head and
shifted to pull the over-sized canvas duffel bag closer to her body.
Just
hours earlier, in the small bedroom on the outskirts of Sopron, Donata had
watched her friend pack and re-pack that bag, knew it held warm clothing, bank
notes, photographs, and the treasures Tereza’s father had left behind the night
the soldiers came for him—his Guarnari violin, now wrapped carefully in a heavy
woolen jacket, and a painted canvas, almost one meter in length, rolled inside
a silk pillowcase. She’d had just a glimpse of one small corner—two glowing
chromium-yellow stars against a swirling sky of deep velvety blue.
Donata
sighed, shifted, returned her eyes to the road. Only fifty meters down the
slope from their hiding place, but it seemed like an ocean away. It was so
open, so exposed. What if . .
She
forced the fear from her head. Pavel would come.
Still no
headlamps. She tried to see her watch in the fading light. The truck was late.
The patrol had passed by more than an hour earlier. They would return within
twenty minutes. Where was Pavel?
She slipped
her hand into the deep pocket of her cloak, gripped the small pistol she had
stolen just days before from a mason in the village. Could she use it? Yes, if
she had to. She would do anything for Tereza. Please, she prayed. We're ready.
Let the truck come. Let . . .
A small
wail broke the stillness.
Both
women froze, their eyes flying to the infant nestled in a soft rose-colored
blanket against Tereza’s breast. The baby shifted, making small breathy sounds
in her sleep.
“Hush,
Gemma Rozsa, hush,” whispered Tereza, holding her child close. Her wide eyes
found Donata’s, too aware of the danger. Any sound could alert the patrols. Or
the Dobermans.
How did we get here, thought
Donata. Two frightened girls and a tiny baby with hair the color of roses, hiding
from soldiers and dogs as the light falls from the day.
“Come
with us, Donata,” whispered Tereza against her cheek. “You can take your vows
in Austria, become a nun there.”
Donata
reached out to smooth the child’s wispy copper curls. “You know I can’t, Reza.
There is no easy choice when your country is occupied. Your father understood
that. You leave, escape to the West. Or you stay and fight. Change is coming, I
know it. Not long now. I hear the whispers.”
“Part of
me wants to stay here with you.”
“Ah,
Reza, I know. Because part of me wants to go with you and my godchild. But our
church needs me more than ever. I have no choice but to stay. And you have no
choice but to leave.”
“Your
church had to go underground,
Donata!”
“All the
more reason to stay.” Donata gazed down at the sleeping infant. “You have to
protect my godchild. Her father will not rest until he finds his daughter, you
know that. That’s why we are here, instead of the border crossing at
Nickelsdorf. They are watching for
you, Reza!”
“Oh, God.
I know you’re right. But what if we—”
Headlamps!
The two women stared into the dim light as the small
truck halted down by the road. The headlights blinked once, twice, then went
out. They could just see the shape of a man emerge, waving his arms at them.
Then he began to open the broken, twisted fence with wire cutters.
“It’s
Pavel.” Donata bent to heft the heavy duffel bag to her shoulder and held out a
hand to her friend. “You can do this, Tereza. For Gemma Rozsa.”
Holding
hands, with the child clutched against Tereza’s chest, the women began to run
across the grass. It was almost full dark now, the tall trees standing like
sentinels against the last of the fiery sky.
The bright day is done, thought
Donata. And we are for the dark.
The
stream beckoned, sparking silver in the twilight. Fifteen meters. Ten. Five. And
then they were at the stream.
The water
was cold, the rocks underfoot sharp and slippery. Donata went first, balancing
on the stepping stones. Behind her, Tereza stumbled, pulling her hand away.
Donata clamored up the muddy riverbank, reaching the fence just as Pavel tossed
a thick rug across the sharp strands of broken wire and held out his gloved
hand through the opening in the fence. “Hurry!” he whispered.
Donata
tossed the duffel bag to Pavel and turned to help her friend. Tereza had frozen
several yards behind her, on the edge of the stream, her head lifted, breath
rasping. Her shawl draped like a veil over her head so that she looked like a
Madonna in the halo of soft evening light.
What did she hear?
The howl
of a dog on the wind.
Terror
iced along Donata’s spine.
A
searchlight speared the air, edged toward them across the grass. Three soldiers
on horseback appeared from the shadows, black and indistinct, riding toward
them. A shout. A gunshot broke the stillness, startling the blackbirds from the
trees. More shots, closer.
“Donata!”
Donata
ran back into the water, saw her friend stagger toward her, hunched to shield
the child in her arms. In surreal slow motion, one of the soldiers raised his
rifle. A flash of fire in the shadows, a deep, agonized cry. Nyet, nyet!
Tereza
stiffened, startled, shock flaming in the suddenly blurred blue eyes. A bright
red stain appeared high on her breast.
“Reza!”
Donata lunged toward her friend.
Tereza
thrust her child into Donata’s arms. “You take her, Donata,” she gasped. “Take
her to freedom. Keep her . . . from her father. Keep . . . her safe . . .”
“No!”
cried Donata. “No, Reza. Not without you. Please, no . . .”
But now
the whimpering baby was in her arms, wrapped against her body, and she felt
Pavel’s strong arms dragging her through the fence. “Come!” he cried. “Get in
the truck! You cannot help her now.”
A jagged
barb tore her arm. As if caught in a nightmare, Donata heard more gunshots, a
shout in Russian, the sharp barking of the dogs. She saw Tereza fall in slow
motion to the riverbank. So still.
She felt
Pavel push her into the truck, heard the gears grind as the wheels caught the
road and the truck roared forward. Clutching her tiny goddaughter to her chest,
Donata twisted to look out the window.
In the
new darkness, the scene in the meadow was dreamlike. The air glowing purple and
silver with ambient light. Three soldiers, standing frozen and black against
the vast shimmering sky. Her best friend crumpled on the ground, one slender
arm stretched toward the fence, her hair glinting like fire in the last of the
light. The gray shawl, fallen beside her, was red with her blood.
And then the truck careened around a bend, and Reza was gone.
PART 1
“Maggie”
“Like a shadow, like a dream…”
The Iliad, Homer
CHAPTER 1
THE PRESENT -
MUSEUM OF FINE ARTS, BOSTON.
TUESDAY, APRIL 8
Maggie O’Shea’s
fingers flew over the piano keys, the final tumbling chords of Chopin’s Heroic Polonaise soaring, filling the
museum’s high, glass-walled courtyard with the chords of its glorious
coda. Too soon, the last notes
echoed. Then silence.
She dropped her
head, trying to breathe, her hands suddenly, achingly still. And then the applause began, rising to
thunder in the lofty glassed space.
Maggie opened her eyes and willed herself back to earth. Back to the beautiful Boston Museum of Fine
Arts atrium. Night was falling, and she
saw herself reflected in the tall windows, a slender black-haired woman in a
tube of charcoal velvet.
Her eyes found the
huge atrium’s centerpiece – the forty-foot high lime-green Icicle Tower, the gorgeous blown glass sculpture by Dale
Chihuly. Sometimes, when she played, an
aurora of bright colors flew like silken ribbons across her mind. Sometimes the roof disappeared and she felt
herself flying high into the star-filled sky.
For darker pieces, she found herself wandering alone, lost in deep
shadows. And sometimes she simply
stepped into the music like a river and flowed with it. Felt it flow through her. Today, those
lime-green glass crystals had tumbled through her head. What would Chopin have thought?
Amused, she took
another breath to center herself once more in the here and now.
Maggie stood,
turned to the audience, gave the slightest bow.
Faces floated like cameos, light and dark, in front of her. Then the guests rose, surged toward her. She smiled, murmured thanks, clasped hands,
answered their questions as honestly as she could. Yes,
Chopin’s Polonaise is one of my favorite pieces. No, I won’t be soloing with the BSO until
later this summer. I, too, find a
definite link between color and music…
The number of
classical music lovers she met never ceased to astonish her. Some so knowledgeable and educated, many
musicians themselves. But others who
simply gave themselves up to the sheer emotion and beauty of the rhythms and
melodies. It was why she did what she
did - because music filled the emotional spaces, resonating long after the room
fell silent. The year after her
husband’s death, when she had been unable to play the piano, was the longest, most
terrible year of her life. Where words fail, she thought, music speaks.
Now, finally,
after months of therapy and hard work, she was making music again. At the invitation of the museum, she had
performed several short piano pieces this afternoon, all connected, in
different ways, to the museum’s current exhibit. Musical
Paintings - an exhibition focusing on the music in art, and the close links
between painters and musicians of the late 19th and early 20th
century.
Once more her eyes
swept the huge glassed gallery, which showcased Picasso’s Three Musicians, Renoir’s Dancing
Girl with a Tambourine. On the far
wall, Degas’ Orchestra Musicians,
Georgia O’Keefe’s undulating Music, Pink
and Blue No. 2, on loan from the Whitney.
Today she had played in honor of Paul Cezanne’s Girl at the Piano, choosing several intimate pieces to complement
the dark and light contrasts of his enigmatic oil. She had played three beautiful Liszt etudes,
followed by a Debussy Prelude, included because of his Impressionist technique,
and – just because the Cezanne stirred thoughts of Chopin within her – the
Polonaise.
Maggie smiled and
shook her head. Time to return to her
apartment and music shop in Beacon Hill.
But first – her gaze trailed to the modern, open staircase across the
atrium. Just one more visit to her
favorite gallery. She laid a palm on the
smooth dark wood of the Steinway, grateful for its clear, rich sound before she
turned away. We did good today, she told the still-warm instrument.
As she moved past
a group of men and women in animated discussion, one voice caught her
attention.
“How does every
Russian joke start?” asked a deep, rumbling voice behind her. “By looking over your shoulder! Ha!”
Who laughs at his
own jokes that way?
In spite of
herself, Maggie turned. An older man in
the group murmured something to a tall, bearded guest and then moved toward
her. Maggie found herself looking up
into heavy-lidded, burning dark eyes.
“Madame
O’Shea?” The accent was Eastern
European.
“I am Maggie
O’Shea, yes.” The man standing in front
of her had a broad Slavic face and a thick wrestler’s build. His bullet-shaped head was clean-shaven, with
a salt and pepper shadow across a strong jaw. A heavy gold necklace sparked
against the white cotton of his open-necked dress shirt. An interesting look.
His hand reached
to close over hers in a warm, firm grip as he bowed from the waist. “It is not often that someone gets my
attention the way you did. I was lost in
my thoughts – and then suddenly I heard your music. I looked up, astonished. Who was playing that piano, creating that
sound? I had to meet you.”
“And now that you
have?”
“Now I am more
taken than ever. Please allow me to
introduce myself. I am Yuri Belankov. Ex-violinist from St. Petersburg.” Laughter boomed deep in his chest. “Very
ex. It was a long time ago. It is indeed a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, Mr.
Belankov. I always enjoy meeting a
fellow musician. Ex though he may be.” She
smiled at the handsome Russian.
“Your husband was
right.
You play like no one else I’ve ever heard.”
Maggie froze.
Breathe.
You never knew when you might be blindsided by the ghosts of
memory. She’d learned that grief was
like that – quiet for a while, and then suddenly, when she least expected it,
it would come roaring back like an ocean wave, knocking her flat. A scent, a voice, a silhouette beyond a
darkened window…
Just ghosts, she
reminded herself. You’re stronger now,
not the same woman you were. It’s okay.
Maggie stepped
closer to Belankov. “You knew my
husband, Johnny O’Shea?”
“He interviewed me
for a story he was doing on Russian businessmen, some twenty months back. September, I think. A sharp man, a brilliant writer, eh? And we played chess twice. He actually almost beat me the second
time. Well, of course I could not let
that happen.” A broad smile. “He talked about you, naturally, assured me
that I would never hear anything more beautiful than you playing his beloved
Rachmaninoff.”
She smiled with
memory. “Rachmaninoff was Johnny’s
favorite composer. I hope you were not
disappointed today?”
“Not
at all. I brought my old friend Kirov to
hear you –” he gestured to the attractive, bearded man in the crowd of guests
behind them. “He owns a very high-end
art gallery in Manhattan.”
Looking past
Belankov, Maggie was surprised to see the stranger’s light, intense eyes
inexplicably resting on her. Kirov.
Tall and very handsome, with a dashing, dark clipped beard. In the narrow European suit, his body had an
arrogant grace. Did she know him?
“He looks like a
Romanov prince,” she murmured.
“Ha, he will love
that,” said Belankov. Looking down at
her, he admitted, “Today I was hoping for the sounds of home - a Scriabin
prelude, perhaps, or Stravinsky’s Sonata.
But your Chopin... Dazzling. You play as if you know something about
loss.” He bent closer. “Which, of course, you do. I am sorry about your husband’s death.”
Maggie felt
herself go pale. “Thank you. It’s been eighteen months, but I still miss
him very much.”
The Russian
nodded. “I felt it. You allow the music to break your heart.”
She closed her
eyes. “The heart will always
grieve. But the raw grief is gone now,
and I’m actually finding happiness again.”
“As it should be.”
She nodded. “Perhaps next time I can include one of your
Russian composers.”
Muscular shoulders
shrugged. “I learned their music at my
mother’s knee. She especially loved the
Firebird.” The dark eyes flashed. “She also told me, ‘Too many pieces of music
finish too long after the end.’ Ha!”
Maggie smiled
again, relieved to be on less painful ground.
“I agree. Your mother was a wise
woman.”
“Da.
She taught me to really listen. ‘Just to hear is nothing, Lyubov Moya,’ she would say. ‘Even a duck hears, eh?’”
His
deep, rumbling laughter enveloped her.
Belankov swept two
flutes of champagne from the silver tray of a passing waiter and offered one to
her. “Will you join me in a toast,
then?” His smile was broad, crinkling
his eyes.
“Thank you.” Maggie accepted the crystal, raised it toward
him. “To your mother.”
“Za tee bya. And to your husband.” He raised a peppered brow in admiration as he
touched his glass to hers with a small clink.
“May tonight be the best night of all, and the worst of the nights to
come.”
“Good words.” Maggie gazed at him thoughtfully over the rim
of her glass. “What story brought you
and my husband together, Mr. Belankov?”
“Two things we had
in common,” he said softly. “Art and
music. My colleagues and I run a Think
Tank in Washington dedicated to improving US-Russian relations.”
“Good luck with
that,” she muttered.
Belankov shook his
head mournfully. “I admit, Mr. Putin
does not make it easy. But we take the
cultural approach, who can argue with that?
Shared art exhibits, ballet company and symphony orchestra tours. At the time we met, your husband was
interested in a Raoul Dufy I had acquired.
Red Orchestra. Exquisite, you would love it. In fact, your husband tried to buy it for
you, but I could not bear to part with it.”
“That’s so
Johnny,” she said softly.
“Da,” said Belankov. “And now, I am in the midst of arranging a
tour of the U.S. by the New Russian Symphony Orchestra.” He handed her a creamy embossed business
card.
Maggie took the
card, slipping it into the pocket of her dress.
“I’ve heard of the orchestra, of course, they’ve taken the music world
by storm. Maestro Zharkov has made quite
a name for himself.”
“Valentin Zharkov
is indeed larger than life, an absolutely mad talent. Like you.”
He wagged thick peppered brows at her.
“He’s conducting in London for the next week, at the Royal Festival
Hall.”
“I’ve played at
the Festival Hall,” said Maggie. “A
gorgeous space for music, on the south bank of the Thames. I’m flying to London on Saturday night. Perhaps I can attend one of Zharkov’s
concerts.”
“It’s an
all-Russian program, Madame O’Shea. I
will get you the ticket myself.”
Belankov smiled, leaned closer.
“Is there any way I could convince you to solo with Maestro Zharkov and
his orchestra one night when they come to the states? Please.
How could you say no to your husband’s beloved Rachmaninoff?”
+
+ +
“Call me Yuri,
please.”
In the Boston
Museum’s soaring Atrium, Yuri Belankov gazed down at the lovely pianist
standing spine-straight in front of him.
Up close, she was slight and slender, with a mass of night-black hair
caught up on her head and remarkable eyes the deep green of a St. Petersburg
river. Her only jewelry was a delicate
necklace, its small gold treble clef glinting in the hollow of her throat.
He turned,
gestured toward the beautiful contemporary painting on the wall behind
him. “Vasily Kandinsky was born in
Moscow, did you know that? His Composition 8 is one of my favorite
pieces of art. The richness of the
colors, all those flowing geometric forms.
Aggressive and still quiet, da? Yet it comes together in total harmony. It looks
like music.”
“It does,” said Maggie slowly, stepping
closer to gaze at the swirling shapes.
“It’s as if the artist translated music into something for the eye.”
“And you know art, Madame O’Shea.”
She shook her
head. “Oh, Lord, no, almost
nothing. But I crossed paths with a
beautiful Matisse this past fall and it reminded me that visual art, like
music, can convey powerful emotions. So
I’ve been coming here to the museum whenever I’m in town to learn more.”
He leaned toward
her. “And to be inspired, for your
music.”
“Yes.” She glanced toward the grand floating
staircase that led to several of the galleries.
“I have found inspiration here.”
“Your Matisse –
was it the Dark Rhapsody?”
Her brows arched in surprise. “Yes, how
did you know?”
“I read about it
in the Times. A priceless painting
looted during World War II, a missing heir… a fascinating story. I have a modest art collection myself.”
“Russian artists,
no doubt?” she said with a smile.
“Except for the
Dufy, of course. Popova, Malyutin,
Larionov. A small Chagall. Did you know Chagall was born in Belarus?”
“I had no idea.”
He bent toward her. “Is it too much to hope that you would tell
me the story of Matisse’s Dark Rhapsody?”
The woman standing
before him glanced at the tall darkening windows. “Perhaps another time. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr.
Belankov. But it’s getting late and I
have one more stop to make before going home, so I will have to say goodnight.”
“Of course, I
understand. The pleasure has been
mine. I hope our paths will cross again,
Zvezda Moya.”
She gave a faint,
questioning smile as she turned away.
Belankov watched
her merge into the crowd, then gestured to his tall, bearded comrade. Nikolai Kirov crossed the room to join him,
his light eyes on Maggie O’Shea.
“She is very
beautiful,” murmured Kirov.
“Da,” agreed Belankov. “Second thoughts, old friend?”
“Nyet.
She is a means to an end. That is
all.”
Belankov put a
hand on Kirov’s shoulder. “For both of
us, Niki. Each of us will get what we
want.” Leaning closer, Belankov lowered
his voice. “So. I saw you taking a call. Have you found the boy?”
“Not yet,” said
Kirov, his eyes still on the retreating figure of the pianist. “But I have a lead – a Russian in Hazelton
Prison, who was very close to the boy’s mother.”
“I am a patient
man, but not this time. We are partners,
we have a deal. My priority is to find
the painting. But yours is to help me
find the boy. Find him, Kirov.”
“I will.”
Belankov put a
hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I have
known you for most of my life, Niki,” he said.
“Something is bothering you, I sense it.
What is wrong?”
Kirov shook his
head. “Nothing I can’t handle,
Yuri. For now, just know that my men are
searching every inch of Brighton Beach.
We will find the boy.”
Belankov nodded
slowly. “Soon, Niki. As my Little Mother always said, ‘Nyet cheloveka, nyet problem.’”
If there is no
person, then there is no problem.
Kirov smiled as he
turned away and disappeared into the crowd.
Belankov watched
him thoughtfully. We all have a dark side, old friend.
Then, once more,
his eyes found Maggie O’Shea, now at the far side of the grand foyer near the
high stairway. Where was she
going?
You can leave me
for now, Magdalena, he told her silently.
But the stage is set. I need to
know what your husband told you before he died.
Our paths will cross again.
Sooner than you know.
About Helaine:
Helaine Mario is the author of four novels of suspense, Firebird (Amazon), and the award-winning Classical Music Suspense Series, The Lost Concerto, Dark Rhapsody, and Shadow Music, coming 9/21/21 from Oceanview Publishing.
Helaine, a Boston University graduate, has been married 50+ years and lives with her husband Ron in Arlington, VA. She is grateful to be a two-time cancer survivor and is most proud of her two children and five beautiful grands.
Helaine was a White House volunteer for Al and Tipper Gore and continues to be a passionate advocate for women & children. Because she believes in “giving back,” she founded The SunDial Foundation in 1998 and the ‘Helaine and Ronald Mario Fund’ continues this work. Royalties from her books support reading, music and food programs for children and families.
Music and
art are at the heart of Helaine’s stories.
Maggie O’Shea, the pianist in her series, was inspired by Helaine’s son,
Sean, who studied piano for fifteen years.
Shadow Music continues Maggie’s story.
Helaine
wants to invite the reader in, create characters with depth, and paint pictures
with words. To make people feel, to ask “What would I have
done?” She says, “Music tells our
stories.”
Very intriguing
ReplyDeletevery good
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