All Around the Town by Mary Higgins Clark - One of Her Best Books in my Opinion, Personal Favorite for 2025

Garrison knew more than anyone how vast sums could be diverted from worthy causes to greedy pockets. He did not intend that his ministry fall into the hands of anyone of that ilk. He also knew that by its very nature a television ministry needed a man in the pulpit who could not only inspire and lead his flock but also preach a rousing good sermon. 

“We must choose a man with showmanship but not a showman,” Garrison cautioned the members of the Church of the Airways Council. Nevertheless in late October, after Reverend Bobby Hawkins’s third appearance as guest preacher, the council voted to invite him to accept the pulpit. 

Garrison had the power of veto over council decisions. “I am not sure of that man,” he told the members angrily. “There’s something about him that troubles me. There’s no need to rush into a commitment.” “He has a messianic quality,” one of them protested. “The Messiah Himself was the one who warned us to beware of false prophets.” 

Rutland Garrison saw from the tolerant but somewhat irritated expressions on the faces of the men around him that they all believed his objections were based solely on his unwillingness to retire. He got up. “Do what you want,” he said wearily. “I’m going home.” That night Reverend Rutland Garrison died in his sleep.

September 12, 1991

Ridgewood, New Jersey 

DURING THE MASS, Sarah kept glancing sideways at Laurie. The sight of the two caskets at the steps of the sanctuary had clearly mesmerized her. She was staring at them, tearless now, seemingly unaware of the music, the prayers, the eulogy. Sarah had to put a hand under Laurie’s elbow to remind her to stand or kneel. At the end of the mass, as Monsignor Fisher blessed the coffins, Laurie whispered, “Mommy, Daddy, I’m sorry. I won’t go out front alone again.” “Laurie,” Sarah whispered. Laurie looked at her with unseeing eyes, then turned and with a puzzled expression studied the crowded church. “So many people.” Her voice sounded timid and young. The closing hymn was “Amazing Grace.” With the rest of the congregation, a couple near the back of the church began to sing, softly at first, but he was used to leading the music. As always he got carried away, his pure baritone becoming louder, soaring above the others, swelling over the thinner voice of the soloist. People turned distracted, admiring. “ ‘I once was lost but now am found . . .’ ” Through the pain and grief, Laurie felt icy terror. The voice. Ringing through her head, through her being. I am lost, she wailed silently. I am lost. They were moving the caskets. The wheels of the bier holding her mother’s casket squealed. She heard the measured steps of the pallbearers. Then the clattering of the typewriter. “ ‘. . . was blind but now I see.’ ” “No! No!” Laurie shrieked as she crumpled into merciful darkness. 

*   *   * 

Several dozen of Laurie’s classmates from Clinton College had attended the mass, along with a sprinkling of faculty. Allan Grant, Professor of English, was there and with shocked eyes watched Laurie collapse. Grant was one of the most popular teachers at Clinton. Just turned forty, he had thick, somewhat unruly brown hair, liberally streaked with gray. Large dark brown eyes that expressed humor and intelligence were the best feature in his somewhat long face. His lanky body and casual dress completed an appearance that many young women undergraduates found irresistible. Grant was genuinely interested in his students. Laurie had been in one of his classes every year since she entered Clinton. He knew her personal history and had been curious to see if there might be any observable aftereffects of her abduction. The only time he’d picked up anything had been in his creative writing class. Laurie was incapable of writing a personal memoir. On the other hand, her critiques of books, authors and plays were insightful and thought-provoking. Three days ago she had been in his class when the word came for her to go to the office immediately. The class was ending and, sensing trouble, he had accompanied her. As they hurried across the campus, she’d told him that her mother and father were driving down to switch cars with her. She’d forgotten to have her convertible inspected and had returned to college in her mother’s sedan. “They’re probably just running late,” she’d said, obviously trying to reassure herself. “My mother says I’m too much of a worrier about them. But she hasn’t been that well and Dad is almost seventy-two.” Somberly the dean told them that there had been a multivehicle accident on Route 78. Allan Grant drove Laurie to the hospital. Her sister, Sarah, was already there, her cloud of dark red hair framing a face dominated by large gray eyes that were filled with grief. Grant had met Sarah at a number of college functions and been impressed with the young assistant prosecutor’s protective attitude toward Laurie. One look at her sister’s face was enough to make Laurie realize that her parents were dead. Over and over she kept moaning “my fault, my fault,” seeming not to hear Sarah’s tearful insistence that she must not blame herself. 

*   *   * 

Distressed, Grant watched as an usher carried Laurie from the nave of the church, Sarah beside him. The organist began to play the recessional hymn. The pallbearers, led by the monsignor, started to walk slowly down the aisle. In the row in front of him, Grant saw a man making his way to the end of the pew. “Please excuse me. I’m a doctor,” he was saying, his voice low but authoritative. Some instinct made Allan Grant slip into the aisle and follow him to the small room off the vestibule where Laurie had been taken. She was lying on two chairs that had been pushed together. Sarah, her face chalk white, was bending over her. “Let me . . .” The doctor touched Sarah’s arm. Laurie stirred and moaned. The doctor raised her eyelids, felt her pulse. “She’s coming around but she must be taken home. She’s in no condition to go to the cemetery.” “I know.” Allan saw how desperately Sarah was trying to keep her own composure. “Sarah,” he said. She turned, seemingly aware of him for the first time. “Sarah, let me go back to the house with Laurie. She’ll be okay with me.” “Oh, would you?” For an instant gratitude replaced the strain and grief in her expression. “Some of the neighbors are there preparing food, but Laurie trusts you so much. I’d be so relieved.” 

*   *   * “ ‘I once was lost but now am found. . .’ ” A hand was coming at her holding the knife, the knife dripping with blood, slashing through the air. Her shirt and overalls were soaked with blood. She could feel the sticky warmth on her face. Something was flopping at her feet. The knife was coming. . . Laurie opened her eyes. She was in bed in her own room. It was dark. What happened? She remembered. The church. The caskets. The singing. “Sarah!” she shrieked, “Sarah! Where are you?”

~~~

Laurie had been outside, playing with her new music box... She knew some of the words now... "Boys and Girls together..." Suddenly a row of cars was going by her house; she saw people in those cars and she moved closer, even waving at some of those who were looking at her and smiling... She was wearing her pink bathing suit and had forgotten her mother's strict rule not to play near the road... She was turning back when a car stopped and she was picked up and taken into the car which quickly pulled away and soon was on the main road heading for anywhere out of town...

They drove and drove and she had fallen asleep until they arrived at a place out in the country (see book cover). A woman carried her into the house where they had clothes for her to change into. Laurie was only 4 and didn't understand what was going on. She only knew one thing--these people were not her parents! And she wanted her sister, Sarah, calling out for her, asking where she was, crying that she wanted to go home...

But she was not to go home for a very long time--two years... It might have been longer but the circumstances of the man had changed... Laurie lived in fear, even though there were short periods when the couple was nice to her... She had been assigned to help on the farm, collecting eggs from the hens... One day Bic, the man, had even picked up one of the chicks and said she could have it as a pet...

Until sometime later he killed that chick in front of her, enjoying her screaming... But Bic loved her... He would put his big burly arms around her while he rocked her, holding her tightly to his body, while he sang hymns--one of his favorites was Amazing Grace... But as the evening went by, he would tell her that it was time to go to bed... After the first night she learned what was coming and lived in fear of what he did to her in the night... Soon she learned to just go away from what he was doing... She would dream of the girls and boys from her music box--he played it for her each night to fall asleep--and in her dream a little, older boy told her what to do while Bic was touching her...

Bic and Opal had earned money singing in bars and then, because he sang hymns often, he was offered a change to be on the radio...As you read, it will become very clear that Bic believed that all that he did was done at the command of God.

After two years she was returned home, but there was never a time when he didn't keep track of his lovely girl... He loved her deeply, so much so that even Opal became jealous. Bic told her once and had to remind her often that there was no way that she could feel jealousy, at least so much so that she outwardly spoke of her feelings. Opal had learned to do exactly what Bic told her to do...

Laurie was changed when she returned. Her family and the church helped as much as possible to ensure she knew she was loved and so happy she was back home... Slowly she returned to their daughter, Laurie; but, within her, she was just as frightened as before... Years went by--she finished school and was in college when both parents were killed in a car accident...

 

Maybe she won’t. The Lord is warning me it’s time to remind her of what will happen if she talks about us.”

It was at the funeral, when she heard from the back of the church a deep voice, his voice rising above everybody as he sang... She could feel the strong arms coming around her and she was once more a 4-year-old little girl crying and afraid...She passed out...

Her hair. A cloud of curls . . . no, a mass of frizz. Impatiently she brushed it. “The sun will come out tomorrow . . .” she sang softly. All I need is a red dress with a white collar and a dopey-looking dog.

Sarah was by then a successful Assistant District Attorney, but it soon became evident to everybody that Laurie had relapsed in some way. Sarah immediately quit her job and became dedicatd to helping her sister get through all that she was facing... A Happy note: Both Sarah and Laurie had connected to a male friend by the end of the book.... In the meantime, Sarah arranged for her to begin sessions with a psychologist, but Laurie made no effort to even talk initially, although she accepted that she would have to follow her big sister's advice now that her parents were gone... But soon, that man began to notice things that did not fit with what he had been told of her background... He decided to contact a psychiatrist who was totally involved in the study of individuals--girls, mostly, but also boys who had been abused when they were very young... Which had resulted in their creation of somebody(s) who could help them when there was no other help... Clark uses the older medical name, which I prefer because I think it is more understandable to patients and family, of MPD--Multiple Personality Disorder... While they have included this within the broader dissociative disorders, the definition continues to be the same--even if some readers have scorned this book for including the issue...

Readers will be totally involved with everything that happens for all characters... Especially, at the point when a professor who had Laurie in his classes, was murdered... And evidence pointed to Laurie having been involved... Although she remembered nothing...

I hadn't read Mary Higgins Clark for over 20 years during my time when I reviewed upon request. So when I saw this book on sale at Book Bub, which is where I get deals on most of my books purchased these days, I immediately selected it to read one of a former favorite author's book... 

I found it somewhat disconcerting when the book was talking about child abuse and church involvement, when I had just posted my thoughts on the evolution of this terrible situation related to the treatment of children and females in particular, becoming more and more prevalent these days. This book certainly reveals what can happen to children during their very early years. For this reason alone, I call it a must-read...

But aside from reality, this is a fascinating, intensely developed multi-mystery that has your attention through to the very last page... Although I haven't read this author recently, I believe this one has to be considered as one of her greatest accomplishments. Taking on a sensitive subject that should be more often addressed publicly, pushing efforts to...do... something! 

GABixlerReviews

And just for fun:

Since I had to look for a music box sound for Laurie

(I'm a collector)

I decided to close with these two types of the more elite of music boxes

(I have one similar to the first with much smaller records)

(Don't you just love the sound of thousands of notes?)

The Bones at Point No Point - Also - The Shadows of Pike Place - Two Books at Once! By D. D. Black...

 

Note: this song is an appropriate substitute; 

apparently the song in this excerpt doesn't exist...LOL

Norwegian Point Beach, Hansville, WA 

Sarah knew she shouldn’t be here. She’d told Benny she couldn’t come, wouldn’t come. But by his third text, she’d agreed. And now he was the one running late. She’d been sitting on the massive driftwood log for ten minutes, staring out at the Puget Sound, as a light drizzle began. It was the kind of rain she’d grown up with, the sort she could be out in all day long and never get wet through her thin buffalo plaid fleece. She’d broken up with Benny three or four times now and had assured herself—not to mention her parents—that they would not be getting back together. But Benny had the best weed in Kitsap County—his cousin worked at one of the shops—and after the stress of finals and college applications, she needed to laugh and to green out. Finally. She smiled when she saw him coming down the beach. He wore a black hoodie and blue jeans, and walked with more swagger than he’d earned. They were never getting back together, she assured herself, but she did like his swagger. It was exaggerated, as though he was doing an impression of someone swaggering. Ironic, which somehow made it endearing. Maybe she could take him back, just for the Christmas break, which started in a couple weeks. He caught her eye and flashed a big smile. She smiled back. She ran her hands over her damp jeans and let out a long breath. “Hey,” she said as he plopped down on the log next to her, stretching his long legs. “Hey.” His voice was deep and sleepy, like he’d just rolled out of bed, which he probably had. What the hell was she doing? She’d told herself there was no way they were getting back together and yet here she was, sitting on the log where they’d first kissed, flashing a newly-tightened-braces smile at him. She should leave. Then again, the semester was almost over, and she’d already finished her essays. She deserved a break. Sarah jumped down from the log. “You wanna walk?” “We can blaze one right here.” He glanced up and down the deserted beach. Everything was shades of gray: the blue-gray water lapping against green-gray beach stones and brown-gray driftwood. Even the sand looked dull and lifeless under the dark gray sky. “Who the hell comes to the beach on a rainy day the week after Thanksgiving?” He chuckled. “Besides a former couple who are still madly in love and want to smoke a little.” Sarah slapped his arm, then looked toward the little café and general store, its entryway decorated with faint blue and white Christmas lights. It was the only business in town besides the post office, and there were two cars in the parking lot, and one was Benny’s. In the other direction, there were the abandoned shacks of Norwegian Point. December in Hansville was a dreary affair, most of the time. She doubted anyone would show up on the beach, but still. “Let’s go to the bluff,” she insisted. Benny shrugged and followed her down from the log. They took their usual route, following a mile-long stretch of beach that led past a row of waterfront homes and into the Point No Point Park. There were a few cars in the parking lot and a pair of kayakers in wetsuits trudged toward the water. In silence they walked just along the water’s edge and rounded the tip of the peninsula past the lighthouse. The water swayed gently in front of them. On a clear day, she would have been able to see Edmonds and Seattle across the water and all the way to Mount Rainier, hundreds of miles to the southeast. Sarah nodded toward the trail that led away from the beach, through the marshlands, and up to the bluff. Benny followed, hands in his pockets. “You think we’ll stay friends when you go away to college?” “Sure we will,” Sarah said, but she didn’t know if it was true. She didn’t even know where she’d go to college, and they both knew Benny wouldn’t be going at all. He caught her eye. “You’re humming that song again.” “No, I’m not,” she protested. “I’ve literally been listening to it for like two minutes.” Had she been? It popped back into her head. Da-da-dee-da-da-deeeeee-da, Da-da-dee-da-da-deeeeee. It was an old indie rock song about a girl who was never getting back together with her boyfriend. The first time they’d broken up she’d played it on repeat, and they’d laughed about it when they’d gotten back together a few weeks later. Now that they’d broken up three or four times—she’d lost track—it was more than a running joke. Benny dropped to his knees in the sand, holding up a stick as a microphone as he belted the chorus. “The last time I saw your briiiight eyes… The last time we said gooooood bye.” He’d been in a mediocre band for a little over a year and had a pretty decent voice for a guy who put in next to no effort. “Enough,” Sarah said, laughing and pulling him up by his elbow. They continued up the trail, leaving behind the famous lighthouse and the plaque commemorating the treaty signed by the local tribes and the state government in 1855. When they reached the top of the stairs, they sat on a bench that offered a narrow view of the beach through a cutout in the blackberry bushes. 

Benny pulled a joint out of a little glass vial and held it out, lighter poised in the other hand. “Ladies first.” She was about to take it when she saw a figure down on the beach, walking close to the water. “Hold on.” She pointed. “Dude, she can’t see us from there. Not to mention, weed is legal now.” “Not for seventeen-year-olds. And if I can see her, then she can see us. And don’t call me dude. I mean, why do boys your age call everyone dude?” Benny smirked. “Fine, bro.” Sarah squinted. The woman was slight, with sandy brown hair and a quick, purposeful walk, but she couldn’t make out much about her face. “You recognize her?” Benny put the joint and lighter on his lap and held his hands in front of his eyes like they were binoculars. “Nope.” He went to light the joint and Sarah swatted his hands down. “No. She'll smell it. Just wait ’til she goes by.” They watched in silence as the woman walked along the beach, jutting up from the Sound toward a patch of driftwood thirty feet from the waterline. “What’s she carrying?” Sarah asked. “Picnic lunch?” Benny laughed, but Sarah ignored him. He was always making jokes. Or trying to. Moving with purpose, the woman stopped about halfway between the lighthouse and the bottom of the trail that led up the bluff. After a quick glance around, she set something on a log. From the bluff, it looked like a green bag. Next, the woman pulled out her phone and appeared to take a few pictures of the bag. Then she turned around and hurried back to the parking lot near the lighthouse, leaving the bag behind. “What the hell?” Sarah asked. Benny seemed unconcerned. “Maybe she’s doin’ one of those online treasure hunts or somethin’? Seen ‘em on Insta.” Sarah looked at him skeptically. “In Hansville, population, like, two thousand? In December?” Benny lit the joint and took a long drag, the sweet smell of high-end marijuana mingling with the moist, salty air. Sarah pulled up the collar on her jacket. Benny offered her the joint and, when she declined, he took another puff and put it out on the bench, then stowed it back in the vial. 

“Only one thing to do.” He leapt up and bolted down the stairs toward the beach, flapping his arms like the wings of a bird in flight and belting the breakup song. “The last time I saw your briiiight eyes The last time we said gooooood bye.” Sarah followed, smiling in spite of herself. He was funny when he was high. She was definitely not getting back together with him, but maybe they could have a little Christmas Break fling. Benny skidded to a stop in the sand. Dropping to his knees in front of the bag, he leaned back, wiggling his fingers in a trance-like, prayerful gesture, an impression of the famous Jimi Hendrix moment when he’d lit his guitar on fire and implored the flames to rise. Benny knew this one always got a laugh out of Sarah. The sack was roughly the size of a plastic grocery bag but made of green felt in the style of a holiday gift bag. It was decorated with cheesy cutouts of Thanksgiving turkeys and cranberries. Benny reached for it. “Don’t touch it!” He offered a dumb smile. “She clearly meant for us to have whatever is in here.” Sarah crouched next to him. “What if it’s a bomb or something?” “Ahh yes, because terrorists always want to blow up logs on empty beaches on mostly empty peninsulas at the edge of the known world.” He reached for it again. “How could we not look inside?” She glanced up and down the beach. Not a person in sight. “Why would she just leave it here?” “The world is a strange place, Sarah.” He looked up at the sky. “Why does anyone do anything?” “You’re sooooooo high.” Benny laughed and rolled into a patch of sand, spreading his arms and legs wide and flailing like he was trying to make a snow angel. Sarah took one more look around her, then reached for the bag. Bang! A thunderous pop cut the silence. Sarah’s shoulders tightened. Benny sat up, looking in the direction of the parking lot. “Was that a gunshot?” Sarah asked. Benny laughed. “Pro’lly a car backfiring.” She heard the quiet whooshing of a car passing on the road behind them. “You were so freaked out.” Benny spoke in a high-pitched mimic. “Was that a gunshot?” “Shut up, asshole.” He continued rolling in the sand, laughing. “This is some good shit.” Gently, Sarah inched the red drawstring between her fingers. The contents of the bag rattled softly as she tugged it open. At first, she saw only shadow. Then, angling her body so the light filtering through the cloud cover seeped into the bag, she gasped. “What?” Benny was looking over her shoulder now. “Is it a prize? Christmas come early? Cash? Oh, please tell me it’s cash.” He whipped out his phone. “Smile.” Before she could object, before she could turn, he snapped a picture. “You’re a jerk, Benny.” Sarah looked down, shaking the bag slightly. Maybe she hadn’t seen what she thought she’d seen. Maybe they were plastic or something. Maybe they were… 

She peered inside, opening the bag a little wider. Bones. A hundred, maybe two hundred. Scattered at random as though fighting for space in the bag. Tiny. Bones. She rolled down the edges of the cloth, letting more light into the bag, and then she saw it. A human skull, the tiniest she’d ever seen. Jumping back, Sarah dropped the bag and screamed, causing the birds to rise from the marshland and take flight for safer ground...

This turned out to be a book for which I had mixed feelings. I didn't like the concept, but the mystery and suspense kept me reading. I think I've said befor that I'm to a point that some stories I just can't deal with due to the what I consider evil content... In this case, children are being kidnapped, cared for a few days and then murdred in an insane way... thus I won't be talking about the story itself... It is written as a thriller but it was more of a horror where the villain celebrated various holidays with the child--in this case, Thanksgiving, with appropriate food, decorations and loving care... until... bones were the only thing remaining upon which a poem was scratched:

the killer had written twelve lines using the baby’s twelve rib bones, the first line written on the top rib and the rest descending from there. 

Thanksgiving is A time to praise

  To love each other

 And cherish each day

 To gather around

 A feast fit for a king

 To laugh and toast

 To love and sing

 So come ye all

 To our table this fall

 And savor each moment

 And love one and all

It was one of those situations where I had to know "Why?" so I kept on reading... But I'm just going to say that a reader will have to decide; I don't recommend for all...

~~~

In the moment before she died, Eleanor Johnson gripped a single thought long enough to fill her last breath with bitterness: which one of those scheming bastards poisoned me?

Austin excused himself and quietly left the living room, wandering down the hallway and loitering by the bathrooms long enough to be sure no one was inside. He peered into the kitchen, where two dishwashers were scrubbing pots and pans over twin sinks. Mack and the cooks had gathered in the living room to keep the Champagne glasses full. At the end of the hallway, a door opened into an office, which was empty. Outside, a ball bounced rhythmically on cement. Thwap-thwap-thwap. Following the sound, Austin cut through the kitchen and walked along the side of the house. Kyon was no longer there. But the little girl was still playing basketball. She was good, too, cutting and weaving and making more than half the shots she took. “Mind if I play?” Austin asked. “My name’s Austin.” She shrugged. “How come you’re not inside with everyone?” “My mom said I could stay outside and play.” Austin held out his hands for a pass. “You like basketball?” She tossed him the ball. “Duh!” Austin laughed as he caught the pass. She was right. It had been a stupid question. He didn’t have a lot of experience with kids. “Who’s your mom?” “Susan.” He passed the ball back. So this little girl was one of the grandchildren who was there the night Eleanor died. “Where’s your cousin who you were playing with before?” “Kyon left.” She passed him the ball, a single bounce right into his hands. “Good pass.” He threw it gently back. “Do you know where he went?” “That was a basic bounce pass.” She began dribbling, between her legs, around her back. 

Suddenly she stopped and held the ball close to her chest. “I don’t think he liked Nanna very much.” “Nanna, is that what you called your grandma Eleanor?” She nodded. “And why do you say he didn’t like her?” “They got in a fight.” “Oh, when?” “Christmas. He makes loud music and she didn’t like it. She liked the Beatles. He said the Beatles were trash.” “That’s what they were arguing about?” She nodded. He held out his hands and she rifled him a chest pass. “I am a friend of the family. Do you mind telling me what you heard?” “Are you trying to find out what happened to Nanna?” “What do you mean?” Austin had assumed that no one told the children she was murdered. “I heard my uncle talking on the phone. He said she was poisoned. Is that true?” Austin passed her the ball. “I’m sorry.” She looked at the ground for a long time. “I like Kyon. He’s my favorite cousin. Mom says he shouldn’t dress like he does, he’s embarrassing the family. But I don’t care.” “I don’t care either,” Austin said. “When he fought with Nanna, he said rock and roll was dead. She said his music was bad. He said EDM was forever. That’s when he said the Beatles were trash.” Austin suppressed a laugh. It was as clichè a fight as there was. Most likely, Eleanor had had the same fight with her parents in the sixties, except she’d been saying jazz standards were dead and that rock and roll was forever. “Were they really mad?” Austin asked. She nodded, then looked up and passed him the ball. “But they must have made up.” “Why do you say that?” “Because. The night Nanna died we were playing video games, and they were sitting next to each other on the couch, sharing a box of chocolates.” 

By the time Austin made it back to the living room, the toasts had ended and everyone had broken up into small groups, chatting and sipping Champagne. Classical music played gently through hidden speakers. The mood of the room, though still somber, had lightened. He found Anna lingering by one of the large bay windows and told her about the conversation on the basketball court. “So far, I’m not loving any of our suspects. Kyon and Sasha are the only adults present that night who we haven’t spoken with.” Anna was already on her phone. “Hold on.” “What are you doing?” “I overheard Junior saying something about a DJ thing Kyon was doing today. He was badmouthing his own kid at his mother’s memorial.” She leaned in, whispering. “Junior may not be a killer, but he’s an absolute jerk.” “So what are you looking up?” “Hold on… yeah, got it. Let’s go.” “Where?” Austin asked, following her across the room. “Without saying goodbye?” “Yeah, this party’s dead anyway.” She didn’t even wait for him to ask about the reference. “Swingers. Another nineties movie you should have been watching instead of poring over police procedure manuals as a teenager.” “Okay, but where are we going?” “Kyon is DJ’ing a twenty-four-hour party in a warehouse downtown.” She smiled. “The nineties are back, baby.” She led them through the front door and out onto the lawn. The gentle sound of the string quartet followed them, and Austin noticed tiny speakers mounted on the side of the house. “As you know, I kinda missed the nineties,” Austin said. “What do you mean?” “Raves, all that stuff. They’re back, just with different music. Different clothes. And it’s not even that different.” “I’m sure it will surprise exactly no one that I didn’t get invited to any raves.” “Neither did I. I was more of a grunge girl. But at least I knew they existed.” She tapped her phone to call an Uber. “So how ‘bout it? Want to go to your first rave?” “Why not?” “Only, don’t call it that. I don’t think they call them that anymore.” “Noted.”

~~~

I decided to try the next book to see if it continued in the same type of dark plot... It did not, although it is still a traditional murder mystery... A Thomas Austin Crime Thriller and I came to appreciate the main character much more as I started this book. It is set in the midst of a wealthy family where there is just the matriarch remaining with the family and who is quite tight with the purse strings. On the other hand, the family in toto is so rich that they have an annual budget set aside for projects based upon an annual budget. But this year, there was quite a change in that group meeting where each family member old enough to participate, plus the family cook had been with them so long that he had been added... This year each request was funded for a limit of $1M because it was discovered that the matriarch had her own project which she deemed much more important to her upcoming retirement...

It was that same night as all the family members were gathered that she died painfully...from poison...

I asked her what her favorite food was and she looked at me like I was insane. Said something like, ‘In a world as big as ours, why would I ever have a favorite?’”

Eleanor had become somewhat of a food snob as she had gained the head of household position. Their cook was quite willing to participate and she would suggest a type of food or food from a country and each occasion's menu would be based upon that choice... It was later shown that she had died from oleander poisoning--a single leaf may kill an adult!

The investigation, of course, begins with talking with all of the family members who had attended that event about use of charitable funds--would anybody kill because they didn't get the projected budgt they wanted for their own idea? Bottom line, however, is that an unexpected twist near the end of the book blows the entire investigation into a much more broader look at just who this family really was...

For those who like to be kept guessing...this one is for you! I enjoyed it, especially with the teammate of the main character who  becomes involved when she was first asked to write Eleanor's memoir--and then lost the job... Tension between her and the new writer adds a turn that can't be ignored by anybody!

GABixlerReviews 

Beginning to Share Project 2025 as Promised, today on my sister blog... Just my Personal Opinion...

https://gabixlerpersonalopinion.blogspot.com/2025/05/mandate-for-leadership-conservative.html

Three Seconds To Rush: Piper Anderson Legacy Mystery Book l - by Danielle Stewart - Romantic Suspense at its Finest!

 

“Are you all right?” Tara asked, leaning back and folding her arms across her chest self-consciously. She’d taken a shower, brushed her hair out, and put on her only decent outfit. But the look in his eyes was making her feel like a heap of garbage. “I’m fine; how about you, are you fine? Are you clearheaded enough to have this conversation? I don’t need to be wasting my time. I put off two other meetings to have you up here. If you’re going to be turning down drug treatment, I hope you have some another plan for yourself. You’ll need to be clean for trial. Otherwise there’s really no point to this.” 

“What are you talking about?” Tara laughed but stopped abruptly at the look on his face. “I told you I don’t need drug treatment. I don’t do drugs.” “Did you take that cab home last night?” The arrogant look on his face made Tara’s stomach knot up. “Are you following me?” she asked indignantly, feeling like if she couldn’t get Reid to believe her, twelve strangers would surely never give her the benefit of the doubt. “I happened to see you,” he said bitterly, straightening some papers on his desk. “Listen I would be crazy to assume you’d kick the habit all in one night. All I’m saying is we need a plan to make sure you’re clean by trial time. You need to be open to that.” 

“Pass,” she said, nibbling angrily at the side of her mouth. “What?” Reid twisted his face in frustration. “What are you talking about?” “Pass; don’t you remember?” Tara’s mind, which had been pushed to the brink by sleep deprivation, had to wonder if maybe this wasn’t Reid. How could he have forgotten their code words and their secrets? “I . . . uh . . .” He faltered, narrowing his eyes at her. She would have sworn he was a stranger until he ran a hand over his cheek and rested it under his chin. The way he always had when she drove him nuts. “That’s what we used to say.” She smiled, wishing he’d remember it as fondly as she did. “If something got too heavy between us, if we couldn’t get the other person to see things our way, we’d say pass so we didn’t kill each other.” “Tara, this isn’t a game.” He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “We aren’t kids anymore. You could go to jail. You might miss your son growing up. I need you to do what I ask of you.” “Just pass, Reid. It’s not that I won’t do what you want, I’m just saying let’s move on to something else. There must be other things we could do first. Why argue right out of the gate?” “Fine,” he acquiesced. “We need resources. Expert witnesses and an investigator. The police had you pegged as guilty from the first moment. They didn’t look any further into the case. That alone might be enough to create some reasonable doubt in a jury.” “How much does all that stuff cost? I know that your hourly rate must be way above my budget, but I want you to know I’ll do what I can to pay you back. Even if it takes me a lifetime.” She crossed her finger over her heart, another piece of their own, long-forgotten language. “Forget that right now. I’ll cover the cost of the investigator and call in some favors. There’s someone I’ve known a while. I asked her to join us this morning. It took some persuading, but I think she’ll have a good perspective, even if she doesn’t take the job.” “Okay,” Tara said in a tiny voice, feeling like she was overextending her friendship with Reid. She’d relied heavily on the past relationship between them but now she was sure she was exploiting that part of Reid that could never say no to her. If that was her only path back to Wylie she’d have to get right with it. 

“Her name is Willow. She’s based in New York, but she owes me a few favors. She’s willing to come up for a while and hear you out.” “And she’s an investigator?” Tara had wrongly assumed the investigator would be some big-bellied old man, retired from his detective job and looking to freelance. In her mind she’d conjured up an image of an old time Dick Tracy. “She’s more than an investigator. She runs an innocence project that helps people who have been wrongfully convicted. This isn’t in her normal protocol considering you haven’t been convicted yet.” “Yet?” “I mean it’s earlier than Willow normally jumps on a case, but she was willing to come today. That’s a start. She’s the best at what she does. I’ve never seen anyone so driven at what she believes. You want her in your corner, so remember that. She has a family of her own and working with us will be keeping her from them. It’s a lot to ask.” 

“Got it,” Tara said, happy that no matter what Willow was like, they had that one common thread; they were both mothers. Surely she’d understand the horror Tara was feeling. “She’s going to ask you things you might not want to answer. Don’t get defensive. Hear her out. Nothing she throws at you will be worse than what the prosecutor will be asking.” Reid looked at her with an intensity that demanded an answer. Tara nodded, but like a dammed river finally cresting she asked the questions she knew Reid did not want to answer. “Are you sure there is no way I can see Wylie? Not even for a few minutes? I think if I called the Oldens, even though we haven’t gotten along in the past, they’d let me see him. He must be asking for me all the time. I’m his whole world.” “No,” Reid asserted. “It’s not a good idea right now. Focus on the case.” Reid didn’t blink. He didn’t soften his gaze or mollify his voice. “That’s easy for you to say; you don’t have kids. You can’t imagine what it’s like to not be with him right now. You don’t know the agony.” She clutched a hand to her heart and the tears began to form again. “I brush his teeth every night and sing this song about Pearl the white tooth. I remind him to take potty breaks. This is the longest I’ve ever gone without him lying in my arms to fall asleep.” 

“Good,” Reid said, looking her over appraisingly. “You need to continue to play that card, be sympathetic.” He waved his arm like a director instructing an actress. “You think this is a card?” Her eyes shot wide open with disbelief. “You think this paralyzing pain of not having my son in my arms is some kind of act? I know every single inch of him, every freckle, every cry. I know him better than I know myself. I love him more than I have ever loved anything, and not being with him right now, imagining he’s scared, imagining he’s missing me, is the most crushing thing I’ve ever experienced, and trust me Reid, my life hasn’t been easy.” There it was. Finally, a break in his steely expression. He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple jumped. His cheeks changed just slightly, the quick burning red of a firework that fizzled out just as quickly. It was unfortunate the only thing that had rattled him also confirmed Tara’s presumption of why he was here helping. Guilt. At the sound of hearing confirmation that her life had been littered with troubles, she knew instantly he felt blame for much of it. 

“She’ll be good on the stand,” a smooth voice said from behind Tara, sending her jumping. In strode a bronze-skinned woman with large eyes and bluntly cut blonde hair. Her clothes were casual, just a gray T-shirt and some well-fitting dark jeans, her black flats looking almost like slippers. Rope bracelets laced around her wrists and an intricately wound metal necklace hung long on her. She was well put together yet intentionally disjointed. “Willow,” Reid announced, standing quickly and pulling her in for a hug. A hug? Reid had seemed so stiff, so unfamiliar and cold, but now he was throwing hugs around. Clearly this was more than just a professional favor. “How’s the family? Is Josh still working at the clinic?” “He is,” Willow announced with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “He’s a glutton for punishment. But he’s doing some good, and you know how important that is to him. My husband the martyr.” They both laughed and Tara felt small, like she didn’t belong. “I always said he should wear a cape to work. I don’t know how he does it. All those treatment programs and sad cases. It has got to be exhausting.” Reid shook his head and flashed his familiar friendly smile at Willow. There was a time in their lives that Tara and Reid had their own body language. It was all gone now, saved for other people. “He must be a superhero to put up with me,” she joked as she leaned against the small bookshelf below the window. She didn’t opt for the chair next to Tara, probably a tactic to stay noncommittal to the situation. “I appreciate your making the trek up here. Your opinion on the case means a lot to me.” Reid settled back into his chair. “I’d imagined you’d be interested in more than my opinion; I figured you’d want my services.” She cocked one of her brows and challenged him. Then she smiled, letting him off the hook. “I didn’t want to start begging too early,” he said with a wry show of his teeth. “You and Josh have been key players in so many of these cases, and I don’t know how I’d have gotten through some of them without you. I respect you both a lot and . . .” “Are we already to the flattery stage?” Willow laughed, waving him off and pushing her bangs off her face. “Let’s hear what we’re working with, and I’ll let you know how I can help. You know Josh and I will do anything we can for you. Now who are we trying to get out of jail?” “No one’s in jail yet,” Reid said, his voice sounding cautious...

~~~

...but Tara knew better. Lies were in her veins recently. Her whole life was fake, and it had become second nature to say what people wanted to hear. Teachers asking why her parents had missed another teacher’s conference didn’t want to hear about their latest bender or how her mom had wanted to come but she’d begged her to stay home, knowing she was too high. That version of the story was too messy. So Tara would make something up...

“I don’t do hope anymore. This job will stomp that nonsense right out of you.”

When I first seriously started reading and reviewing fiction, I soon realized that I agreed with what I had read in publishing magazines, which I had subscribed to while I was working at a small publishing company. I learned that writers should strive to grab attention of the reader within the first few pages. It became something I've always looked for but didn't find often. Danielle Stewart did it perfectly, and I was hooked, even though as I read I was certain of whodunit...

The book opens when a young mother is discovered in an alley, with a needle sticking out of her arm, completely passed out... About the same time, her son was found in a grocery cart seat, cold with his lips turning blue... Tara was immediately given a drug to bring her out of the near-death experience and was rushed to the hospital. So was the son... Tara was not to see her son further. She had been charged with child endangerment...

Tara had had a terrible early life, then her husband died by a heroin overdose, leaving Tara alone with their child. She immediately looked for work and had three different jobs in order to keep food and shelter for her son. She had nobody in her life other than the few people involved in her jobs and she worked hard to financially be able to just keep moving forward. Stewart's character of Tara was one that readers will immediately know that Tara was not a mother who will in any way hurt her child...

And yet none of the people who were immediately involved in the crisis situation would stop to listen to her story. She had a needle in her arm and was passed out... Same old story. She was a drug addict... Worse, she cared more about getting high than to caring for her son... Me? None of it rang true. Yet the police and prosecutors felt they had a tight, evidence-based case and were proceeding to indict her.

Tara had nobody, no money, no supporting family. But she did have a close childhood friend who she had heard had become a defense lawyer... After that time, she thought she could call on him and beg for help...

Reid, however, at that time, was close to job burnout. He had reached a point where he was tired of having to find some "story," some "angle" he could use in order to defend his clients, often knowing that they were guilty and he was helping them return to their criminal activities! By the time Tara called him, asked for his help and he had called to learn about the charges, he felt that, even as a friend, Tara was just one more client who wanted him to lie to keep her from going to jail...

But Tara had learned more about herself, had decided what she wanted in life, and was working hard to make a home for her child, as a widow... And she was not willing to play games or lie...

We need to create some checkpoints, some mental health intervention and a support system that’s sustainable for you. But this could change everything. Think about Wylie.” 

“You want me to say I tried to kill myself?” she asked, her words broken with emotion. “I don’t think I can do that. I can’t go there and lie.” “You can’t say it’s a lie,” he cut in. “You admit you don’t remember what happened that night. If the prosecutor can’t find any evidence of habitual drug use, then what other explanation is there? They’ll know they can’t prove their case, and they’ll back the charges down. Isn’t that worth it?” 

“Worth saying I’m suicidal?” Tara cupped her hands over her mouth, the word seeming too bitter and unsavory to let out again. 

“Better than being a drug addict,” he argued, his voice raising a few octaves. “You have no idea how lucky you are that Willow stumbled upon this. Just think about it for a minute before you shoot it down completely.” She bit at her lip to force herself to do what Reid was asking. “What would we do next if I say what you want me to say?” 

A smile accompanied by a look of relief cascaded over Reid’s face. “We’re about to enter the discovery stage of the trial now that the arraignment is over. That means the prosecutor has to share information and evidence they’ve gathered.” 

“Everything?” she asked, feeling like she was about to be stripped bare and paraded through the court when the day came. “By law it’s any information reasonably calculated to lead to admissible evidence. We’ll get a good idea of what they intend to do in court, who they’ll call as witnesses. Once we have that information I think we should present this new evidence and petition the court to reduce the charges.”

Tara often would have flashbacks to when she had helped Reid in his youth. He would sneak into her bedroom window just to talk and she would help him see things from a different perspective. Often he was just drunk and would sleep there on the floor rather than go home. One time, she had lied for him when he could have been arrested along with a group of students who had committed a crime. Tara was so used to lying, that the police had no problem in believing her story...

But Reid was not in a position in his own life to be able to return that favor of lying in court for her. In other words, he believed that she was indeed addicted to drugs and had not considered any other option. Fortunately Reid had met some good people along the way and one individual in particular, who investigated cases where innocence of the accused was unclear. She began to investigate, thankfully, and, even better, was a mother who knew exactly what condition Tara was in with no other help to care for a three-year-old son... In other words, she believed Tara...

Readers will see how easily somebody can be set up to be accused of a crime... Expect to be greatly frustrated as to how Tara was treated, especially, since she claimed from the very first, since she had no idea what had happened to her, that she did not do drugs and would never harm her beloved son. You will feel her pain, knowing she was accused yet knowing that there was no way she had been involved with those accusations. 

Even though I had correctly figured out what was going on fairly early, I still responded with anger of how this woman was being treated... I know we have a drug problem in America, but, even more, we have lost our sense of believing people, even in relation to criminal actions that may or may not be able to be proven. Suspense, therefore, is high... But the change that occurs to Reid is significantly higher... He has lost faith in defending people who may be innocent of what they've been accused.

Even though I had correctly figured out what was going on fairly early, I still responded with anger of how this woman was being treated... I know we have a drug problem in America, but, even more, we have lost our sense of believing people, even in relation to criminal actions that may or may not be able to be proven. Suspense, therefore, is high... But the change that occurs to Reid is significantly higher... He has lost faith in defending people who may be innocent of what they been accused. Readers see his on again off response to Tara, as he thinks he learns enough to know she is guilty of addiction and the subsequent charge about her son...

Stewart has written a realistic human story, that could easily be a real story right now in America. Have we lost our ability to believe that not all people are capable of crimes--even though the outward signs reflect evidence to create a legitimate assumption?

The ending of this story is fantastic, not just for learning the whodunit... This novel has much to tell you about life in America at this time, when even those who have entered the justice system believing that they can help, are meeting so many obstacles, not the least of which that they are more than likely actually defending a guilty defendent, often somebody with power and money, or even religion in this case, to feel like they should be able to buy their way out of that courtroom... It was too raw a story to become a personal favorite, yet, I can't help but recommend that this book is one that should be read for many reasons... Do check it out!

GABixlerReviews

Latest Post Re Within the Sounds of Silence:

https://gabixlerpersonalopinion.blogspot.com/2025/05/may-19-2025-within-sounds-of-silence.html

Saying 11 - The Quantum Sayings of Jesus: Decoding the Lost Gospel of Thomas by Keith Giles

 

Jesus said: “This heaven will pass away, and the one above it will pass away; and those who are dead are not alive, and those who are living will not die. In the days when you ate of what is dead, you made of it what is living. When you come to be light, what will you do? On the day when you were one, you became two. But when you have become two, what will you do?” 

I don't know about you, but when I read these words by Jesus, I finished reading and thought--What?!

One of the issues I had with the King James Version, of the Bible which was given to me as a gift when I was baptized was that I had no idea what much of the book said or, better, meant... Many years later, I learned from my best friend at that time that in the Catholic Church, most people don't even have copies of the Bible.

More and more I've been thinking about how the Bible has influenced the world over more than 2000 years... In my opinion, for both the good and the bad... At present, and in the past, I've read many scholarly books by those who have completed extensive research in order to create a book like this, which includes both the Words of Jesus, as well as the commentary that has been provided based upon such research. But, even at my age, I am still asking, What?!

Personally I think that Jesus, speaking on behalf of His Father, spoke, often, words that were not meant to be immediately understood...purposely... For one, we have no idea to whom Jesus was speaking... Was it to just his disciples? Or to His followers at that time? In either situation, perhaps, it was just the presence of our Lord that provided the connection between He and His audience... And the words were secondary...

For me, I have always thought of the words and songs I learned as a child... You may remember that Jesus once said that unless we become as children, we cannot come unto Him, or something like that... For me, that was the key... Because I came to learn that He takes each of us exactly where we are in our life. And, if we invite Him in, we are not expected to be able to understand all that God has prepared for His Children. Once I knew He was Alive in Me, I was content and free of fear of any kind... And we began moving forward as I began to grow and learn... So, let's see what Keith Giles' research has said about this Saying...

It is quite likely that Saying 11 can actually be considered two sayings rather than one. We could even argue that it is three sayings in one. But at any rate, the first sentence appears to be about heaven, while the second saying seems to be about the differences between what is alive and what is dead, with a potential third saying focused on what happens when one becomes two.

Let’s take each part of this saying, examining one piece at a time in order to see if we can make sense of what Jesus is trying to show us here. In the first saying, Jesus says that “This heaven will pass away, and the one above it will pass away.” What we need to keep in mind is that the “heaven” he is referring to is not a spiritual reality where people often imagine God dwells. We know this isn’t what Jesus is referring to because all throughout the Gospel of Thomas, we are reminded that God is not separate from creation. Therefore, there is no such thing as a “heaven” where God exists apart from the rest of reality. This idea is an illusion that Jesus has come to eradicate. So, it’s possible that on one level what Jesus means to say is our concept of heaven as a separate place where God dwells apart from us is what will “pass away” as we begin to realize the truth of our Oneness and connectivity with God. 

However, since Jesus adds that “the one above it will [also] pass away”, we might need to reconsider that explanation. It’s more likely that when Jesus refers to “this heaven” he’s talking about the physical and literal sky where the birds of the air fly. “The one above it” refers to the realm of the moon, sun, and stars above us. This was the common use of those terms, even in the New Testament. When Paul speaks of being taken up into the “third heaven” [2 Cor. 12:2–4], he’s cluing us into the First Century mindset in which the first heaven was the sky, the second heaven was outer space, and the third heaven was the spiritual realm where Almighty God is. So, when Jesus says that “this heaven” and “the one above it will pass away” he’s saying that the first and second heavens are temporary. By default then, the third heaven, which isn’t mentioned by name, is all that will endure for eternity. Why? Because it is the only realm that defines all of reality. Everyone and everything—both God and humanity—exist, right now, together, as one in this third heaven which is all there is or ever will be. In other words, Jesus is saying that the sky we see by day, and the heavens we see by night are illusions that will one day vanish and cease to exist. The physical realm will eventually crumble. All that will remain is the ultimate reality which is understood to be defined as the Universal Oneness of all things.

Now, let’s look at the second saying found here: “Those who are dead are not alive, and those who are living will not die. In the days when you ate of what is dead, you made of it what is living.” As with several other sayings of Jesus from this Gospel of Thomas, the first part of this statement appears to be painfully obvious. Of course the dead are not alive. That’s why they’re dead. But then why does Jesus follow this up by saying, “…and those who are living will not die.”? That statement does not appear self-evident. In fact, it is more than a little confusing. How can Jesus claim that “those who are living will not die,” especially when we have experienced quite the opposite? Could it be that Jesus wants us to understand that death, like the first and second heavens above us, are not true expressions of reality? If so, when he says, “those who are dead are not alive and those who are living will not die,” he wants us to consider another possibility—that death is an illusion—that those who are alive [as we all are when we begin our mortal experience in this world] will remain alive and not die, even if they appear dead for a moment. The illusion of death, like the illusions of the sky and the universe around us, will one day fade away. What will remain is life—the reality of our eternal Oneness with the Creator of all things, and one another. 

Jesus concludes this passage by adding, “In the days when you ate of what is dead, you made of it what is living.” What could this possibly point to? What exactly is meant by “…when you ate of what is dead...”? One idea might be that he’s referring to “the days when” we once believed in an illusion of death and separation from God and others. Before we understood the truth of Oneness and Connectivity, we were eating or consuming “what is dead,” In doing so, we “made of it what is living.” Or, in other words, we once believed a lie about reality which tricked us into thinking that what was dead [false] was alive [true]. In contrast, now that we are eating of what is alive, what this makes in us is life—true life—a life that is based on reality rather than illusions. Perhaps this is why Jesus ends this section by asking us, “When you come to be light, what will you do?” 

This feels as though it’s flowing directly out of the previous statement where the negative thought of “eating what is dead” is contrasted with what happens when we “come to be light,” realizing how we have been living in darkness. Yet, there is one final question for us to consider which comes back to the notions of division and separation. Jesus rounds out this long saying by asking: “On the day when you were one, you became two. But when you have become two, what will you do?”

Once more, Jesus wants us to continually question our perception of reality. The “day when [we] were one” is the day you were born into consciousness in this present reality. From the beginning—and even before the beginning—you were One with the Source of all life. But, even as you took your first few breaths in this life, you “became two.” You began to believe the illusion of separation was real. Once you have “become two,” or believed in the lie of separation between God and others, “what will you do?” The only hope for you is to return to that place of original Oneness with the One True God whom you can never be separated from—ever. It’s fascinating to me how often we hear pastors and Bible teachers point to the story of Adam and Eve in Genesis as evidence of our separation from God. Yet, the story never once says that eating of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil created a “separation between God and humanity.” Not once. We read about how they were separated from the Tree of Life in the Garden, which was why they were expelled from Eden. But the story does not say that humanity was ever separated from God at all. In fact, what we read is that God went out from the Garden with them, and clothed them, and cared for them, and watched over them, and their children, just as when they were in the Garden before. 

That story also tells us that the lie the serpent told Adam and Eve in the Garden was that they were not already equal with God. What Eve and Adam accepted by eating of the fruit was the lie that they needed something outside of themselves to become like God. How could they be more like God than to be made in God’s image, both male and female? How could they be any more like God than to be filled with the very life breath of God which filled their own lungs and made alive by God’s indwelling presence? We continually suffer from this same delusion of separation from God today, every time we buy into the notion that God is “up there” and we are “down here”—that our sins prevent God from engaging with us, loving us, or accepting us—that God is anywhere other than our own inner being. We are where God is, and God is where we are. We are God’s hands. We are God’s feet. We are God’s voice. We are God’s presence in this world; the Incarnation of Christ where God dwells by His Eternal Spirit. The more we understand this, meditate on this, and live out of this unshakeable truth, the more this truth will transform us and change us into the beautiful image of Christ from the inside out. 

At present I am reading The Divine Human which tends to support much of what Giles says... But another option came to my mind that could be the explanation... At least from my personal understanding... In most churches, or outside of a church, an individual meets and asks God to come into their lives... In church that led to a baptism and thereafter we were allowed to participate in Holy Communion... This ceremony was introduced at a time when Jesus was meeting with His disciples, where He broke bread and gave it to each to eat, asking that they do this in remembrance of Jesus. He did the same with wine, also in remembrance of Jesus. Could it be that He was preparing for His death and how individuals were to remember Him was through eating of the symbols of Christ (who later died) and thus we become a living body in which the Living God may reside in all His Glory? If, so what would you do then?

That kinda works for me... What do you think?

Have a Blessed Day

Gabby

Ben Bradmore Presents Her Last Recital - A Tense Page-Turning Thriller

But Robert had nothing new to say. He’d already painted a true picture of Hattie as a promising pianist who stayed out of trouble. Yes, she could be disorganised, disengaged, sullen, but she wasn’t the sort to get involved with the wrong crowd. It was hard to imagine what the wrong crowd would even look like at the academy – students who practised their scales for five hours a day instead of six? Students who thought Beethoven was overrated?...

It was the tricky alternating-octaves passage of "Rondo Alla Turca," which made Hattie cringe at her small hands. She could still play it better than anyone else her age, and better than most pianists in the country, but now she was more aware than ever that her finger-stretching hadn’t helped enough. The piece just didn’t shine. As she waited for Robert to deliver his criticism – which she was beginning to think might actually be deserved after all – she found herself pulling on the ends of her fingers, making the bones click in ways they just weren’t supposed to. “This fingering is all over the place,” said Robert, shaking his head. Hattie waited for the sound of sniggers behind her, but none came. Back at school, everyone had laughed whenever Mr Henderson talked about fingering in keyboard club, but the academy wasn’t a place where people laughed much at all. “I don’t like the octaves,” whispered Hattie. “You can’t like or dislike octaves. They simply exist. You might as well say you don’t like the number eight, or sharps, or flats.” Hattie balled her hands into fists. The tips of her fingers were hurting worse than ever, but that didn’t stop her from clenching in rage. Why did he talk to her like this? Why did he have to belittle everything she said like she was a stupid kid? She was one of the most talented young musicians in the country, probably the most, but all she got for that was punishment and scorn. She was so busy being angry that she barely noticed Robert sitting next to her on the piano stool. Suddenly there was music playing as he blasted through the fast-octave section on the piano, his arms stretched across her but not touching her. His playing was technically accurate, but Hattie knew it wouldn’t make waves on the concert circuit. He played like a teacher, not a pianist. But that didn’t stop him raising his eyebrows once he’d finished the passage, waiting for her to admit that she hadn’t managed to play it like he did. When she said nothing, the applause from the students seated behind her covered the silence. She knew it was mainly girls clapping. They always clapped Robert, because the awkward boys their own age who attended the academy were nothing to clap about. Finally, after another rant – this time about her posture - the session finished and it was someone else’s turn to get torn to shreds. Hattie slunk back to take her place in the semi-circle, relieved to no longer have a piano stool beneath her. She spent the rest of the morning staring at the floor. But even with her eyes averted, she felt Robert’s piercing gaze from across the room.

~~~

Sometimes excellence can become a burden, specially for young teens who have become sufficienly efficient on their chosen instrument to be selected to attend an exclusive academy where they would receive personal attention and support toward moving forward in their skill levels, perhaps sufficient to be chosen to play in a major orchestra... or, even as a premier soloist...

Hattie, our main character was the youngest student to come to the academy. Her parents had supported her love of the piano since she had first started picking out songs... Indeed, her talent had been such that she had already been invited to travel all over the world and had gained a wonderful reputation.

However, here at the academy, where all types of communcation were forbidden... where their parents were not permitted to visit except for scheduled concerts, and where competition was purposely developed as small groups were taught by one tutor to which all compliments and criticisms were heard by all. It was a dismal sort of school environment where the joy of music, their love and passion, was reduced to boredom, tedious repetition, and a feeling that you could just not succeed no matter how your tried...

Hattie had become so tight--frustrated that she had lost the ability which had garnered her such praise. Discussions on fingering occurred often and Hattie became so insecure that she started pulling on her fingers privately, trying to get the ability to handle the octaves that occurred in many classical selections. A concert was coming up and she hoped to select a piece on which she could excel... Practice, practice, practice was demanded constantly once the date was actually scheduled... Her parents had been invited and she was anxiously looking forward to seeing them, having had their support and praise since her early years.

But she had been assigned Mozart’s Fantasia in d minor rather than the Mozart selection she had hoped to play... The schedule had been finalized and the control and demand on each student had heighten to a point that each student barely had time to breathe or sleep...and... finally the day was there and they moved to the location of the recital where each student would be given the opportunity to play on the actual instrument they would be using in the concert. Finally Hattie was called to the recital room...

Everyone took it in turns to go and practise alone on the grand piano in the centre of the stage, so that they’d be familiar with the key weightings and the tone. When it was Hattie’s turn to leave the dressing room, she sensed Robert moving to follow her. But then someone asked him a question and his pursuit was stopped. She was relieved to reach the stage alone. It was just her and the dim pre-performance lighting. She could see the shadowy forms of the seats stretching away into the inky black, where only the emergency lights of the entrances and exits rooted her in reality. Breathing deeply, she started the slow, atmospheric climb of the opening bars of Fantasia in d minor. The stage seemed to warp and bend as she transitioned into the dissonant chords that followed, the lights winking at her as she reached the descending bassline, then the trill, then the playful climbing harmonies in the left hand. When she launched into the fast and frenzied scales that signalled a radical change of pace, she felt as though she was lifting steadily off the ground. It was all she could do to keep control of the intricate fingering as she emerged into the slower, dreamy passage that mirrored the start of the piece. Her fingers sang and screamed in a mixture of ecstasy and pain, thanking and berating her for the ritual stretching. At the end of the piece, the silence was life-affirming. She drank in the absence of applause, the absence of chairs thumping, the absence of Robert stern and motionless in the front row. This was what playing was all about. It was about another world altogether, a world barely connected to this one but mirroring all the love and hurt of life. And every time she stretched her fingers, she was reaching closer to that other world and drifting further out of this one. A nagging fear told her this habit was unhealthy, that she was harming herself inside and out, but was it really any more harmful than the pressures of the academy? Hattie let out a long breath. The performance she’d just delivered was the real recital. She promised herself she’d remember the silence, and cling to it when the noise of the academy and Robert made her tremble. Then a thought struck her. If she’d just given the real performance, the one that really counted, then why did she have to perform later? What if she didn’t play the recital at all? What if, during the shadowy intimacy of her playing just now, the emergency lights had been beckoning her to find a way out? A strange tingling sensation spread through her limbs. There were bubbles in her stomach. Her ankles twitched with the urge to make her stand up. For a moment, she felt sick. This urge to move was all wrong. She was supposed to stay seated at the piano almost every hour of every day, and the idea of voluntarily moving away from it scared her. But it was happening. She couldn’t control it. Even the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up now, urging the rest of her body to follow. Slowly, steadily, her heart pounding and her skin prickling with sweat, Hattie rose from the piano stool, pulled her dress up above her knees, and made her way towards the exit.

~~~

And no further music was heard...

Hattie was gone... We learn later that she walked out away from the academy facility... somebody else saw a truck, but had not seen it near Hattie... A complete search was organized, students were returned to their own rooms...finally, the police were called in...

He knew this was the moment something awful had started. This was day one. Disappearance day. In all the confusion, only one thing was clear: He had to get her back.

The major part of this book will be the suspense, the mystery, the questions of whether she is alive or dead... The author has created an intricately enmeshed thriller that will pull readers on to the next page, exploring exactly what happened to Hattie...

Did she run away from the pressure? Was she kidnapped? Did she have an accident somewhere where there is no way to call for help? As everybody is interviewed that day, the pollice worked to narrow down who could have been involved... And, then, a break occurred when a social media poster shared her personal thoughts, which wound up moving the investigation toward a specific person... Only to later have her admit when she was called in with her mother to talk about her providing official testimony at court, that she had lied...

Back to square one? Yes and No, because at that point, readers are not quite sure of anything, including whether a crime had occurred. Let's be truthful, this author had us guessing up to very close to the end of the book! So much so that there is no way I can say more... Especially when you've been talking about classical music that is hundreds of year old... Well, I could only think of one way to move it forward... to turn the beat around!

Enjoy this one!

GABixlerReviews