Tremolo

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  The twins and I exchanged puzzled looks and moved closer to the window.

  The deep voice spoke again. “What? Who’s outside?”

  Siegfried’s eyes grew round as fireballs. I tensed. Elsbeth grabbed my arm and squeezed. Heavy footfalls thundered across the floor and the window above us flew open. The blast of his voice came milliseconds before his head poked out.

  “What in tarnation are you kids doing?”

  Frozen in place, we stared at the man, whose grizzled face twisted in fury. A tangled white beard hung six inches beneath his chin, resting on a red-and-white checkered flannel shirt. Black suspenders looped over his shoulders, and his gnarled hands batted the air in front of his face. He yelled louder this time. Three crows cawed and abandoned their perch in the giant cottonwood overhead.

  “Well, speak up! What the hell’s going on here?”

  Elsbeth spoke first, shocked into her native language. “Es tut mir leid.”

  When the man squinted his eyes in confusion, she recovered.

  “Um. Sorry, sir. We didn’t think anyone lived here.”

  We scuttled backwards on our hands and feet, our backsides scraping the earth like bouncing bulldozers. Siegfried jumped up and pulled his sister to her feet.

  I stumbled back against the wall, ramming my spine against the stones. I winced, scrambled to my feet and stared at the ground. “We’re sorry, Mister. We were looking for a fort.”

  The sound of a rifle cocking made me look up again. A long barrel poked out the window, aimed at my chest.

  “If you kids aren’t gone by the time I count to five, you’re dead meat. Now scat!”

  I don’t know if he actually counted or not. The blood rushed in my ears and drowned out all sounds. We raced to our horses, swung onto their backs, and galloped down the woodland trail to safety.

  Chapter Two

  Pancho thundered beneath me in a steady gallop, close behind the twin’s mounts, Frisbee and Golden Boy. Branches whipped my arms and face. I leaned down on my horse’s neck and twisted my fingers into his thick black mane. Heat prickled beneath my bare legs. I gripped harder. The woods flew by in a blur.

  Pancho passed Siegfried’s piebald, so close Sig and I bumped elbows. When we blew past Golden Boy, Elsbeth shot a smile at me. It was then I realized she wasn’t scared at all—she was enjoying herself.

  Pancho had taken the bit before, but this time we were riding in the direction of home, and he took full advantage. Lowering his head, he hardened his mouth and pulled the reins out of my hands.

  Somehow, I didn’t care. The faster we got away from the bullets I was sure were flying toward us, the better.

  When we reached the clearing near the Ambuscade, I regained control of my horse. I slowed him to a walk, slipped off his back, and flopped to the ground. I dropped the reins on the grass and my trusty black gelding began to graze as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. I rolled onto my back, breathing hard. “Holy mackerel! I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

  Elsbeth slid from Golden Boy’s back and tied him to a fencepost. Sig did the same with Frisbee, and they joined me on the grassy hill.

  “Mein Gott! How did he know we were out there?” Elsbeth propped herself up with one elbow and turned to me. “And who was he talking to?”

  Siegfried was quiet for a moment, but I could see his brain working furiously behind half-closed eyes. “Maybe he has a prisoner in there. And his mouth was gagged. That’s why we couldn’t hear their answers.”

  I sat up. “But he heard the answers, right? He was really talking to someone.”

  Sig’s mouth twisted. “Ja. I guess so.”

  When Elsbeth turned on her stomach, her dark brown curls fell forward, nearly obscuring her face, her cheeks still flushed pink from our gallop to safety. “I think it was a psychic child, his only daughter who can read minds and make spoons bend. She sensed we were outside and told him. Maybe she told him in his head. She didn’t even need to talk.” Her eyes flashed with excitement, even though Siegfried seemed to dismiss the theory with a half head shake.

  “It could be.” I rolled onto my stomach beside her, finally feeling my breath come under control. “Or maybe he was talking to a ghost. What the heck was that weird singing sound, anyway?”

  Siegfried snorted and ignored my question. “Let’s face it. It’s more likely he was delusional. He imagines a friend is with him. He is so lonely he had to make one up. And he has conversations with them on a regular basis.”

  “That would make him nuts,” I said.

  Siegfried looked at me as if I were a slow student. “Ja, precisely.”

  Elsbeth combed her hands through the deep grass, looking for the elusive four-leaf clover. “There’s just one problem with that idea.”

  Sig sat up and challenged her with his startling blue eyes. “What? It’s a perfect theory.”

  She pulled her knees close to her chin and narrowed her eyes as if she were about to reveal a secret. “If he’s crazy, how’d he know we were out there?”

  Siegfried and I exchanged a glance. I sat up and brushed dirt from my knees. “She’s right. He came right over and found us. And we hadn’t even made a sound. We were so quiet. And he was shouting about us even before he saw us.”

  Siegfried was reaching now, and his hesitant words betrayed his doubt. “Maybe he had a trip wire somewhere. We might have crawled right over it and set an alarm off inside.”

  Elsbeth knew she had him. “Nein. We were sitting under the window listening to him talk with whoever it was for quite a while. We didn’t move, remember? And it took at least five minutes for him to realize we were there.”

  I looked at Siegfried, who had gone silent. “She’s right. But I still don’t get it. I’m not sure there’s such a thing as psychic abilities.”

  Elsbeth jumped to her feet and headed for Golden Boy. She untied his reins, grabbed a fistful of mane, and swung onto his broad back. “We’ll find out next time, anyway.”

  Siegfried got up and headed for Frisbee, who skittered away from him for a few feet. Even the horse seemed nervous. “Next time?”

  “Ja. When we go back to investigate.”

  I chuckled and vaulted onto Pancho’s back. Although I didn’t relish the idea of returning to the shack, I wasn’t surprised at her bravado. She’d been showing signs of feistiness over the past few months that made my heart swell with pride.

  I turned Pancho’s head and squeezed his bare sides with my legs, leaning forward to urge him into a canter. “Come on. We’ll be late for dinner. Race ya to the road.”

  We covered the ground where Boyd’s men had been slaughtered, and I almost thought I heard the screams of the men as they were ambushed by the Indians and Brits. I squeezed his sides tighter and pushed him into a gallop. I didn’t want to linger where ghosts walked.

  Chapter Three

  Pancho slowed to a trot when we approached home. He leaned into the curve and automatically turned down our winding dirt driveway. I’d said goodbye to the twins a quarter-mile down the hill. They’d cut across a shorn alfalfa field toward the farmhouse they’d lived in since their family moved to East Goodland, New York from East Germany seven years ago. I still pictured them slipping beneath an iron curtain when they escaped to freedom.

  If Siegfried and Elsbeth were late for dinner, they didn’t eat. Their father, a hardworking man, was the strictest father I’d ever known. He believed in spanking–which my parents only pretended to do–and his punishments were severe. When Siegfried forgot his homework one day, although he had an “A” average in every subject except gym, Mr. Marggrander assigned two weekends of backbreaking weeding as a reprimand. Siegfried never forgot his homework again.

  I gazed at our old place with affection when the house, barn, and carriage house came into view. I also felt a bit of guilty pleasure, knowing my parents would never make me go hungry or beat me for a disobedient act. I felt safe and secure in this world, and knew whatever I did–right or wrong–my
parents would always stand behind me.

  Pancho headed toward the barn, turning into the main aisle before I had to guide him. I slid off his sweaty back and landed on my once white PF Flyers with a light thump. He lowered his head for me to take off his bridle; and with the reins still around his neck so he wouldn’t bolt for the field, I pulled the leather halter over his ears. He knew it was dinnertime, so he was especially cooperative.

  He nudged me with his big head, pushing into me until I rubbed his ears and scratched inside them where the bugs had bitten him. When he was satisfied, I put him into his stall, which opened into the fenced field beyond. Following my daily routine, I went into the main aisle to scoop grain from the barrel for his dinner. In order to reach the lower level, I had to lean over with my feet flailing in the air.

  The sweet mixture of cracked corn, oats, and special vitamins smelled of molasses when I poured it into his bin. “Here you go, boy. Eat up.”

  I didn’t have to encourage him. He never hesitated, and this time as always, dove into the corner bucket with gusto, munching with a hypnotized expression of joy in his eyes. I grabbed a ragged terry towel my mother had donated to the barn and dumped some Absorbine Junior liniment on it. In broad sweeping strokes, I ran it over his neck, back, and especially around his legs. He looked fat and sassy, all glistening and plump in just the right places so he was an exceptionally comfortable bareback ride. He liked the feeling of the cloth on his neck, and pushed against me when I stroked beneath his thick mane.

  When he was rubbed down, I refilled his water bucket in the stall as well as the large tub in the pasture, then threw him a few flakes of hay. He didn’t really need it since the field was lush with grass, but I liked to give him a little every day just to be sure.

  “See you in the morning, Pancho Villa. Sleep tight.”

  He stuck his nose in the water bucket and played with the liquid, sloshing it around and snorting.

  “I’ll take that as a thank you.”

  Four cats followed me around the barn, mewing and circling my ankles. Momma Kitty, a beautiful longhaired calico, led her three babies to the empty food dish, where she mewed again and looked up at me with recriminating eyes.

  “Sorry, kitty. I’ll fill it up.” I poured the bag of Purina Cat Chow into her bowl until it overflowed and refilled their water dish.

  My stomach rumbled when I ran inside. I felt like I could eat ten hamburgers. “I’m home!” I slammed the screen door and—as usual—forgot to take off my dirty sneakers. Shadow barreled into me, jumped onto my legs, and licked my hands with a snuffling little whine, telling me how upset he was that I’d left him home alone.

  My mother stood at the stove, yellow apron tied around her sky blue housedress. “Go wash up, Gus. It’s almost time. And take those smelly shoes OUTSIDE.”

  “Sorry, Mum.”

  My father poked his head around the corner from the great room. The evening paper crinkled in his hands. “Gus? Did you rub down your horse?”

  I nodded and backtracked to the screen door, kicking off my sneakers and tossing them onto the porch. “Of course, Dad.”

  “And did you feed him?”

  I rolled my eyes, but just a little. I didn’t want to get into trouble for being fresh. “Yup. And the cats, too. Everything’s done.”

  A look of satisfaction swept over him. “Good boy. Okay, do as your mother says. Wash up and come right back down. The roast beef smells good, doesn’t it?”

  The aroma had tantalized me since I entered the kitchen. “With mashed potatoes, Mum?”

  She nodded, stirring a small pot of gravy with a wooden spoon. “Uh huh.” A glimmer of a smile touched the corners of her mouth. “And fresh-picked green beans.”

  I raced upstairs, splashed warm water on my face, lathered up my hands with Ivory soap, and threw on a clean pair of jeans and a fresh shirt. I knew I’d smell way too horsey for the dinner table after riding all day and working in the barn in the morning. I skipped down the stairs two at a time and into the dining room, where both parents already sat with their hands on their laps waiting for me.

  My father said grace—mercifully short—and we dove into the meal. Shadow sat patiently under the table beside my knees. My mother was the best cook in Livingston County, and maybe even in all of New York State. I ate like Pancho, with gusto, slipping a few little pieces of beef and bread to my canine buddy when I could. When I finished my chocolate pudding with whipped cream piled on top, I pushed back from the table and covered a burp.

  “‘Scuse me.” I folded my napkin and looked first at my father, then my mother. “Mum? Dad? I have a question.”

  They both stopped in the middle of their pudding and looked at me with expectant smiles.

  “Do you know who lives in the woods in that cabin behind the Ambuscade? He’s an old hermit, lives by himself, I think.”

  My father took a zealous interest in his pudding.

  My mother went white. She collected herself, exchanged a worried glance with my father, and lied to me for the first time in my life. “No, darling. We don’t know who lives there. But that’s private property. You shouldn’t trespass in those woods.”

  ∞∞∞

  Read more here: Don’t Let the Wind Catch You

  Afterword

  If you’ve ever stayed at a lakeside camp, you’ll understand my fascination for the Belgrade Lakes of Maine, where I spent many childhood vacations. Tremolo whirls with nostalgic memories from that era, based on some of the happiest times of my youth.

  The word “tremolo” describes the laughter of loons. It’s a lovely yodel that cascades over the lake, rippling the waves with enchanted song. But the bewitching loon’s laugh is actually a distress call, often heard if humans come too close to their nests. Danger stalks young Gus and his friends in this novel; thus, Tremolo: cry of the loon seemed an appropriate title for this lakeside coming-of-age mystery.

  Tremolo’s mysteries are founded in pure fantasy. Thank God. I wouldn’t have enjoyed being chased through the woods by a drunken murderer at age eleven, or at any age. And wouldn’t my life be a rather fearsome thing, if all my fictional villains were based on reality?

  There are some events, however, that jump right from my childhood–such as the “bat” scene. I’ll always remember my dad running around the living room in his boxers with a butterfly net, chasing a trapped and confused bat while I cowered behind my bedroom door. Or the time he took me to see “To Kill a Mockingbird.” I distinctly remember sitting in the dining room after the movie, when he turned his forearm in the sunlight and said how lovely it would be to have golden brown skin, like Tom Robinson.

  Dad was like that. Passionate and liberated, he embraced all people and welcomed life’s full gamut of experiences. And guess what? He was quite a bit like the man Gus becomes in the LeGarde Mystery Series.

  The lake, cabins, buildings, boats, loons, and the swing were real. The horses I knew as a child, but not in Maine. That’s one of the attractions of writing fiction–to be able to summon sublime scenes from childhood, decorate them, combine them in any fashion, and populate one’s books with them.

  The words from Oscar Stone’s slide show in chapter thirty-nine are based on writings found in my maternal grandfather’s papers, the man who inspired Oscar’s character. In addition to being a fine pianist and devoted husband, he was a gifted photographer.

  I’ll never forget those sun-drenched days in Maine. I still dream about them and summon the memories when life gets tough. Magic was there, and although the camp has long been torn down and replaced with condos, it remains alive and will forever endure in my mind.

  Thanks for listening. I hope you enjoy this romp through Gus’s childhood.

  Aaron Paul Lazar

  P.S. This is the first of at least three “Young Gus” Mysteries, including Don’t Let the Wind Catch You (#2) and Voodoo Summer (#3). I’ve also packed them into one boxed set that you can buy all together on Amazon if you wish. ;o)

  A
cknowledgements

  Special thanks to my critique partners who helped along the way:

  Joan Otto Miller, Sonya Bateman, Jeanne Fielding, Nancy Luckhurst, and Lesia Valentine.

  Thanks to my family, friends, and “inner circle” of advanced readers who provided insight and encouragement:

  Lorraine Anderson, Sue Clark, Sherrie Coleman, Eva Douglas, Anne K. Edwards, Don Harman, Jason Jarvis, Dale Lazar, Mum, Pete Pellissier, Rik Lennox, Ken Ramirez, Bobbi Scranton, Linda Slade, Scott Slattery, Mina Sniderhan, and Jane Soan.

  Thanks to my astute editor, Leslie Holman-Anderson.

  Heartfelt gratitude to my German language advisors: Matthias Regelsberger and Melissa Ingersoll.

  Finally, deepest appreciation to my publisher, Lida Quillen for her undying patience and for believing in Tremolo when we first released this series under the Twilight Times Book name.

  About the Author

  Aaron Paul Lazar is obsessed with writing. He's completed twenty-eight books to date, and has earned twenty literary book awards. He writes mysteries, suspense, love stories, and more. You'll usually find him writing his heart out in the early hours of the day - preferably in the dark, quiet hours when no one else is awake in his bustling household. Visit his website at www.lazarbooks.com to sign up for a free book and to learn about future deals.

  You may contact him at author@lazarbooks.com.

  Book Series by Aaron Paul Lazar

  (eBook, audiobook, and print)

  LeGarde Mysteries (country mysteries set in the Finger Lakes)

  Green Marble Mysteries (time travel to the fifties with a little boy ghost)

  Tall Pines Mysteries (sensual mysteries set in the Adirondacks)

  Paines Creek Beach Series (steamy love stories by the sea)

  Bittersweet Hollow Series (romantic suspense involving kidnapping)

  All Books by Aaron Paul Lazar

  LEGARDE MYSTERIES

  1. DOUBLE FORTÉ