Prelude and Promises

  Prelude and Promises

  By Barbara Baldwin

  Digital ISBNs

  EPUB 978-0-2286-0560-7

  Kindle 978-0-2286-0561-4

  WEB 978-0-2286-0616-1

  Print ISBN

  Amazon Print 978-0-2286-0562-1

  B&N Print 978-0-2286-0563-8

  Copyright 2018 by Barbara Baldwin

  Cover art by Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Dedication

  To the real Brenda Kay – A special friend in my life.

  A Few Musical Terms

  Adagio—Restful, at ease. A slow moving tempo.

  Capriccio—A quick, improvisational, spirited piece of music.

  Concerto—A composition written for a solo instrument, such as the piano. The orchestra plays the accompaniment while the soloist plays the melody.

  Counterpoint—Two or three melodic lines played at the same time.

  Legato—Indicates the entire composition, or the movement, is to be played smoothly.

  Presto—Indicates the tempo of the music is to be very fast.

  Sonata—A musical piece consisting of four movements, each differing in tempo, rhythm and melody but held together by subject and style.

  Chapter 1

  Cheyenne stepped onto the boardwalk outside the Bed & Breakfast and slipped on her sunglasses to cut the glare of the late morning light. The only redemption from the hot July sun was the breeze blowing off the nearby bay. She sighed. She wasn’t here to enjoy the pristine beach and crystal blue water of the small tourist town. She was on a mission and today she would run her quarry to ground, if she had to burn down every tavern in a two mile radius.

  For days, he had managed to evade her. His minions in the little village of Princetown refused to give him up. The first day, the answer to her question as to where Joseph Donovan was had been met with “Who?” as though no one in the town of a few hundred people had ever even heard of the man.

  Yesterday, it seemed everyone in town had agreed to send her on the wildest goose chase ever to be had. One comment from a local led to another place where, of course, the next person sent her off in a different direction. She knew they knew where he lived, but no one gave her a residence. They simply pointed her to yet another business, most of which were bars.

  They apparently thought she was after him for nefarious reasons, which for the love of God was ridiculous. Did they think she had no sense at all, that she would waste her time in some backwater village, dumping sand out of her shoes every day, in pursuit of some…some male who had made it his recent goal to negate obligations and run away from his responsibilities? No, this was strictly business.

  If only her employer had not insisted she be the one to find him…

  * * *

  Two months earlier at the Donovan Academy of Music in Chicago, Illinois

  “You will find my nephew,” Sebastian Everhart Donovan had told her in no uncertain terms.

  “Sir, he’s thirty years old. He has a right—”

  “He has a gift, and that gift is meant to be shared. He belongs to the world.”

  “Why not hire a private investigator? Surely they have skills I don’t.”

  “And make this public?” He quickly interrupted her. “I’ll not have the tabloids spewing vindictive lies about him being on drugs, cavorting with seamy actresses and singers or doing God knows what. You have three months.”

  “Sir, I doubt I can—”

  “Three months, Miss Tucker. Because that is all the time I have.” He bent his head to the papers on his desk, effectively dismissing her.

  She knew he had been ill, but now as she looked closer, she noticed the pallor of his skin and how his suit jacket seemed to sag on his shoulders. His hand shook as he tried to pick up a pen and if she weren’t mistaken, his hair was thinning; he was almost bald on top.

  “Sir, is there anything I can do?”

  “You can do as you’re told,” he grumbled, but most of the starch normally in his voice was gone. “And you will say nothing to my nephew other than he needs to return to his rightful place.”

  That rightful place was as a world renowned pianist. Joseph Everhart Donovan had been groomed by his uncle for his role from the age of six. Having worked for that Uncle for the past six years, Cheyenne knew only some of his story. His mother had been a concert violinist, raised by her brother, a great composer. She had disappeared for a time at age twenty and come home unmarried but pregnant. After Joseph’s birth, no one had heard anything more about Kathryn Donovan. She hadn’t performed in years and had become a complete recluse, yet no one in the media had ever speculated why. Cheyenne knew that for the truth; she’d done plenty of research on the family after she had come to work for the Donovan Academy of Music. And even though she lived on the Donovan premises, in all her years as Mr. Donovan’s executive assistant, she had never seen his sister.

  She hadn’t even known Kathryn Donovan had died until one of the servants let it slip that Master Donovan had left in a temper immediately after the funeral and no one had seen him since. That had been two weeks ago.

  She sighed as she quietly closed the door to Mr. Donovan’s office. What did she know about finding missing people?

  The easiest place to start her search did not prove the most helpful. She spent a month going through company records, looking for some hint as to where he might have gone, some trip he may have taken that didn’t correspond to a performance. Then she started in on the financial accounts. Although his uncle maintained power over the trust that funded the Academy, Joseph had access to funds at will. Having pinched pennies her entire life, Cheyenne was well aware of the value of a dollar, and it didn’t take long for her to recognize a pattern.

  She brought the matter to the attention of Mr. Donovan. “Joseph made systematic withdrawals every month for over a year.”

  He did not seem surprised. “Joseph has access to the trust, within reason, although all performance expenses and travel are usually handled through the accountant.”

  “These are cash withdrawals, a thousand every two weeks.” An extreme amount of money from Cheyenne’s perspective.

  The man just shrugged, not looking up from his papers. “He may have had a mistress. I don’t pry into his personal affairs, as long as he’s discrete and leaves nothing behind that requires responsibility.”

  She blushed at the intimate statement, having an idea to what he referred, but that wasn’t her concern. “That’s a rather large sum of money.”

  Again he shrugged. “It was cash. There’s no way of tracing it. Are there no receipts for airline tickets, hotel rooms?”

  “Nothing outside his performance agenda.”

  “Then keep looking.”

  “Another question if I may, sir?”

  With a resigned sigh, he set aside his pen, folded his hands on the paper in front of him and regarded her with limp, watery eyes. He really did not look well.

  “Do you know who his friends are, college pals or other close musicians?”

  “You do not have friends when you are famous,” the uncle stated flatly. “You have business associates and groupies, and those who would take advantage of you.” His tone was bitter.

  She replied before she thought better of it. “That doesn’t seem a very happy way to live.”

  He skewered her with a look. “Your plebeian outlook does not interest me.”


  His comment about the lack of friends bothered her more than it should have. Everyone should have friends, someone to confide in. Her best friend was her younger sister, whom she still called twice a week even though she didn’t see her often.

  The conversation with Mr. Donovan triggered a memory of an incident that had occurred, what, six months ago?

  Her office and Mr. Donovan’s private teaching studio were connected to the mansion by a covered walkway over the driveway. Joseph, his mother and his uncle all lived in the main house. Her apartment was behind her office, and she rarely had reason to visit the mansion. On the occasions she had meals with the servants, she used the back entrance which led directly to the kitchen.

  On this particular day, she had papers Mr. Donovan needed to sign but he had left early, not indicating whether he would be back. Since the papers were time sensitive, she hurried after him, hoping to catch him before it was too late.

  Instead, she ran into Joseph, literally, in the foyer. He managed to catch her before she sprawled on the marble floor, but in doing so he dropped his briefcase and the contents spilled out. She squatted to help him gather a pile of mail.

  “That’s not necessary,” he had said as he quickly grabbed the stack from her. “A friend. I’m collecting his mail for him.”

  She caught only a glimpse of an envelope from a travel company. “Well, he must be taking a trip.” She handed him the envelope but at the time had wondered at the flush on his face.

  Now, as she recalled the incident, she thought perhaps finding his friend would lead her to Joseph. The problem was she hadn’t paid much attention to the recipient’s name on the envelope. She had just noticed the business name. What had it been?

  It wasn’t until the next day that Cheyenne remembered the company name, but an internet search came up with dozens of possibilities for Island Realty and Travel. She started calling but no one had heard of Joseph Donovan, at least not in regard to that name and purchasing real estate in their area. The last on her list, a company in Lockabee, Washington, gave her the first sense of a lead, and that came only from a lack of helpfulness.

  “I know Joseph Donovan. I love his music,” said the woman on the other end of the line.

  “Yes, but have you recently rented or sold any real estate to him, or perhaps to a friend he’s traveling with?”

  The woman hesitated just long enough for Cheyenne to get the sense she was withholding information. “Our records are confidential.”

  “Nonsense. Selling houses is on public record.”

  “Then perhaps you should start there.” And the phone disconnected.

  It was all Cheyenne needed. She booked a ticket to Seattle and flew out the next day.

  Now, she stood on the boardwalk in the small village of Princetown on Lockabee Island off the coast of Washington state. Hands on hips, she looked first one way, then the other. It was approaching noon, and for a young man who had grown up with servants, she could assume that he didn’t cook and would be eating lunch at some local restaurant. Today she wouldn’t ask questions; that had gotten her nowhere. She would simply look.

  It didn’t take long to realize that most of the restaurants in the area were occupied by tourists—middle aged couples or families. She narrowed her search to taverns, of which there seemed to be plenty. Number four, the Gold Pelican, was as dim inside as the rest. She stood by the door and removed her sunglasses to let her eyes adjust, surveying the occupants. Several tables were empty by this time. A couple of men dressed in black eyed her from the end of the bar, but she ignored them.

  She approached the bartender, one of the same men who had sent her chasing around town yesterday.

  “You again? I told you yesterday I don’t know Joseph Donovan except for my girlfriend dragging me to a concert in Seattle once.” He shrugged. “I guess it wasn’t bad.”

  “Wasn’t bad?” Cheyenne sputtered. “He’s world-renowned, the finest pianist to ever perform.”

  The bartender wasn’t impressed. “Want a drink?”

  Frustrated, Cheyenne nodded. “Lemonade?”

  When the bartender came back with her drink, she slid a twenty across the bar. “Perhaps Joseph Donovan was here with a friend. You’ve been here for some time, I’m sure. You must notice non-residents.”

  He eyed the bill but she kept her fingers securely on top of it.

  “I rarely pay attention to the tourists, unless they get rowdy.”

  Patience, Cheyenne muttered to herself.

  “Not a tourist but not a life-time resident. Someone who has been here, say, about two months.”

  “No one by the name of Joe.”

  Cheyenne racked her brain for the name on the envelope he had dropped that day, which she had only seen upside-down. Jeremy…John…Jake!

  “I’m looking for Jake.”

  “Jake who?”

  Now what? How many Jakes could there be in a town this size?

  “Well, you see. That’s the thing.” She glanced down, trying for a shy look. “We met at a…concert, and we didn’t exactly get around to last names.”

  The man laughed, seeming to understand all she hadn’t said. “That sounds like Jake.” He looked closer. “You don’t exactly look his type, but if he wanted you to find him, wouldn’t he have given you his last name or a number?”

  She bit her lip. She never lied and it wasn’t easy. “We’d been drinking, and…”

  “Hit and run, did he?” the man said and though she had no idea what exactly that meant, she nodded.

  “Hmm, it might be kind of interesting to see what Jake does when you show up.” He turned to a phone on the counter and punched in a few numbers, his back to her.

  Lord, how backward was this place when people still had land lines?

  In minutes he hung up. “Jake said have a beer and he’d be here in a few.”

  “I don’t want a beer.” Her stomach had begun somersaulting and her hand shook slightly as she lifted her glass for a swallow of lemonade. After two long months, did she dare hope this Jake could tell her where Joseph was?

  “Excuse me, miss,” one of the men in black slid down the bar closer to where she sat. “Did you mention Joseph Donovan?”

  She started to answer but paused. Mr. Donovan had always cautioned her about gossip and apparently this man had overheard her.

  “Do you know him?” she asked cautiously.

  The man looked at his companion before answering. “In college. Haven’t seen him in years so when you mentioned his name…”

  Cheyenne narrowed her gaze. The man looked to be well over forty, not exactly close to Joseph’s age. And she knew Joseph had had a private education. Something about the man made her wary.

  “I haven’t seen him,” she said, which wasn’t a lie. She turned her back and after a few minutes, heard the man shuffle down to the end of the bar.

  She kept her eye on the door, not sure who she was looking for when a group of men walked in. One in particular drew her attention. His sun bleached hair was shaggy and long; he wore an untucked polo shirt and stained cargo shorts, his long legs and forearms tan. Although he looked nothing like Joseph, something about his posture, even relaxed as he chatted with the men who came in with him, reminded her of times when she had seen him off stage after a performance.

  When his gaze collided with hers, his eyes narrowed and he frowned. She thought he intended to run as he turned back to his companions, but after a few brief words, he left them and headed her way, sliding onto a stool to her right.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Miss Tucker. I wondered how long it would take my uncle to send someone after me. I never thought he would use you.”

  She recognized his voice if not his appearance. All traces of the meticulous performer were gone.

  “Joseph! Oh my God, I can’t believe I finally found you.”

  “Joseph?” the bartender echoed, setting a beer in front of him. “This is Jake, the guy you said screwed you and ran off.”
>
  Joseph raised a brow and frowned at her and she had the grace to blush. Ignoring the bartender, she turned to face him.

  “Your uncle didn’t use me. He asked for my help.”

  “You have no idea how devious my uncle can be.” Joseph’s voice held anger. “Sending a guy to manhandle me wouldn’t have accomplished his purpose as easily as sending a beautiful woman to seduce me.”

  “I most certainly did not come to seduce you.” Even as she spoke, she felt the heat of a blush at his compliment.

  “I thought I had hidden my tracks very well and yet you found me.” He looked her up and down and Cheyenne fought the urge to tug her skirt down.

  She cleared her throat, determined to get to the business at hand. Instead, she asked curiously, “Why did the bartender call you Jake?”

  “It’s my name,” he said before taking a swallow of beer.

  She frowned because she knew better; however, there seemed little sense in arguing. In a low voice, she said, “I can understand why you would use a fake name. Every time I asked after Joseph Donovan, everyone had heard of you, but no one knew where you were.”

  He seemed amused at her words. She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “Now that we have that cleared up, I have a message from Mr. Donovan.”

  He put up a finger. “Hold that thought. Would you excuse me for a minute? Then we’ll go somewhere and talk.”

  Cheyenne watched him saunter between tables toward the facilities at the back of the bar. One of the two men who had spoken to her earlier also left his perch and disappeared into the back.

  Cheyenne finished her lemonade and waited. The man returned, shook his head at his companion and they both walked past her and left. She looked to the rear hallway once more and frowned.

  Ten minutes later she knew she had been taken in by the oldest trick in the book; one she had even used on a blind date.