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The blow came so quickly he had no time to defend himself. Blood ran from an open gash in his right temple, down his jaw and into the dark folds of his jacket collar. Without warning the plane banked dangerously to the left, the wings almost vertical as it knifed through the night sky.

Fighting the dizziness that threatened to overtake him, he fought the yoke and righted the plane, just avoiding the looming mass of blackened rock and rows of bristling trees.

"If you kill me, I won't be able to land," he shouted over the engine's roar.

The cold muzzle of the pistol jammed into his throat just above the larynx.

God...please, not there.

"Shut up and land the goddamned plane!"

He glanced at his assailant and fought the overwhelming urge to strike back. Grimly, he tried to wipe away the blood now threatening his vision. The dizziness assaulted him again, seeping through his entire body like an insidious drug.

The plane lurched and swooped low, skimming over the dark, ominous water. He tried to focus on the controls but found the effort nearly impossible. With the menacing darkness nearly overwhelming him, he struggled one last time to guide the plane to safety.

The gun's muzzle pressed deeply into his throat.

"Do it!"

The sea rushed up toward them, a gigantic, boiling maw of black water.

At least death would be quick...and there would be no pain.

Chapter One

'Recitative'

There wasn't much to like about Carl Bradley, unless you liked the insufferable combination of arrogance and faked sincerity. Sarah didn't enjoy pigeonholing people so quickly, but the moment Carl stepped off the plane, she knew exactly what she was up against: a New York lawyer, so slick and so impressed with himself, he would certainly treat her as merely the courier sent along to run errands for him.

"Mr. Bradley?" she asked politely, holding out her hand to him. His handshake was just as she imagined, a genteel squeeze as if bestowing a rare favor to the office girl. Sarah suppressed the urge to make a face and assumed the role of the gracious hostess greeting a colleague.

"How was your flight?" she asked.

"Tedious, and I'd already seen the movie. We almost had a layover in Chicago. It was a nightmare."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Sarah tried to brighten. "Well, welcome to Seattle, Mr. Bradley. I'm Sarah Toreson, Jack Kaye's associate. Mr. Kaye asked that I join you in inventorying the McLaughlin estate."

"It really wasn't necessary," he said smoothly while adjusting the flight bag strap over his shoulder.

Louis Vitton flight bag, of course, Sarah thought sourly.

"Our firm is perfectly capable of handling Alexander McLaughlin's entire estate. However, we understand that such a fine attorney as Mr. Kaye deserves some recognition."

Sarah bristled. So much for tact. This pompous and very junior associate from such a prestigious New York law firm as Waters, Owens, and Delacorte, was making no points in that department. Where did Malcolm Owens find such a jerk? Sarah pressed her lips in a firm line and gestured for him to follow her.

"Are you hungry? We could stop for a late lunch on the way into town."

"No thanks," he said with the obligatory feigned smile. "First class served lunch on the plane. Really, quite good actually, and an amusing little wine... But, I'm anxious to get on with the inventory work at the house."

He stopped, thrusting his arm out of his sleeve and glanced at his watch. Probably a Rolex or Piaget, Sarah thought with annoyance.

"I'm due back in New York in three days, so we need to get busy."

Again, the insincere smile and the patronizing wink. Of course. Wouldn't want you to miss that round of golf with Donald Trump, or cocktails with Dr. Kissinger. Besides, where does one lunch on tofu and white wine in such a backwater village like Seattle?

She took the longest strides her slight frame and high heels could manage, hurrying determinedly through the airport to the baggage carousel. To her relief, it did not take long for him to find his bags and they quickly made their way to her parked car. She almost detected a look of disappointment behind those round, chic-lawyer glasses as they stuffed the two bags into the back of her SUV. Obviously, it wasn't the limo he had hoped for...

"I hope you brought comfortable clothes, Mr. Bradley," she said, noting the expensive suit and light topcoat. "It's a little rough where we're going."

"It's Carl, please. Oh sure, but I understand Alexander McLaughlin's place is quite comfortable."

Sarah glanced down at his tasseled loafers. "Yes, but it does rain here a lot and Mr. McLaughlin's house overlooks the Sound. It will be damp and chilly."

"You needn't worry about me. I was a top sculler at Yale for three years straight. Up at four a.m. Training in all weather. Can't stop an old Yale man."

Sarah slammed the deck lid shut. "Lucky for you, Seattle just got running water and electricity last year, so it shouldn't be too tough." She smiled sweetly at him and slid into the seat behind the wheel.

He got into the passenger seat next to her and held up an apologetic hand. "Listen, if I've offended you, let me know."

She turned, facing him. "I know this job is beneath you, but I would appreciate a little less of your big-city-lawyer patronizing."

He held up the other hand. "Okay, okay. Sorry."

Sarah pulled out of the airport parking lot and headed for the freeway. Long minutes passed before she spoke. She felt her anger begin to waver. She may not like Carl Bradley, but at least she could be civil to him. It wasn't his fault he had been sent out to inventory the west coast home of one of the world's most prestigious opera singers--a task she was certain he would rather do by himself, but Alexander McLaughlin's New York attorney and Mr. Kaye felt it should be a joint effort.

"Look, I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot," she apologized. "Let's start again. Maybe you could update me on his file."

"Sure." Carl reached around to the back seat, pulled up his briefcase and snapped open the lid. At once the professional attorney, Carl riffled through the papers and brought out a thick bundle bound at the top with a metal fastener.

"Okay, here we go." Carl adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. "Alexander McLaughlin, born in Seattle, died three weeks ago in an apparent plane crash over the Strait of Juan de Fuca while flying to Victoria, B.C; neither his body nor the plane were ever found. Has a co-op apartment in Manhattan and the house here in Washington."

"Yes," Sarah confirmed.

"The estate includes a Porsche in New York, blue chip stocks, some bonds, three checking accounts, substantial savings, tax-deferred annuities, life insurance etcetera, etcetera, and a couple of other investments. We're looking into his overseas holdings. In his personal effects, some clothes and furnishings--nice stuff I might add," Carl commented, while flipping the page over to read the rest of the listing. "A few antiques and a couple of fine paintings." Carl shrugged. "Other than that, very straight forward. So, what have you found out here?"

"Very similar." Sarah swerved slightly to avoid a logging truck roaring along at their right. "We handle a family trust left to him, mostly to run the house on Bainbridge Island--a small cottage for the housekeeper and her salary. There's a car. Jeep or Land Rover, I think. And the Cessna, but that's gone now. Hopefully, we'll find a lot more when we get to the house."

"Yes, I hope so. Mr. Owens made a particular point about a rare music score McLaughlin picked up somewhere in Europe. I think it's included in the will. He says it's fairly valuable, too. We were going to get someone out from Christie's to look into it, but," Carl shrugged again, "I guess we're just supposed to box it up and bring it in if we find it."

Sarah shook her head. "Music score?"

"Yeah. Supposed to be some lost or unknown work of Giuseppe Verdi--an opera, I guess. Damned if I know."

She pondered his words for a moment. "Maybe he gave it to his wife. Wasn't he married? I remember Mr. Kaye telling me Mr. McLaughlin had a wife."

"Divorced four years ago. Nasty divorce, too. I very much doubt he left her anything."

"Well, do we know of any other beneficiaries? Any long lost cousins, a love child, maiden aunt, secret lover? I mean, he must have told you where he wanted his money to go."

"The Metropolitan Opera is getting a large endowment, I know that much, but as for the rest..." Carl shook his head. "Owens has been pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing."

Sarah glanced at him. He didn't look quite so insufferable now. In fact, he looked like any other thirty-ish man having just spent half a day in a jet--a bit rumpled around the edges with fatigue creeping into his eyes.

"Did you check his safe deposit box for anything?"

"Yes, and there wasn't much. A pair of very fine diamond cufflinks and some other miscellaneous jewelry--family things I think. What about out here?"

"Nothing." Sarah paused again, trying to think through all the possibilities.

"Did you ever meet him?" he asked.

"Yes, once, about three years ago. He came to the office to sign some papers and then Mr. Kaye and I took him out to lunch. Fascinating man and quite modest for such a great star. Funny though, I've never heard him sing. Did you ever see him perform?"

'Fascinating' is much too safe a word, she chided herself. He was incredible, unutterably attractive...and those eyes.

"Nah. But Owens loves opera. He belongs to everything affiliated with the Met. A real opera nut. Do you like opera?" he asked, laughing. With that he rolled his eyes upward, suggesting an inner kind of private ecstasy. "I'm a jazz man myself."

"I don't know, I guess so. I don't know much about it...opera, that is. It's all in Italian or French so I don't understand it."

Carl snapped the top down on his briefcase and eased it around into the back seat.

"Too bad. I'm not much into opera myself, but I'll tell you something, that man could sing."

* * *

By late afternoon, Sarah's Toyota swung into the gravel driveway toward the wrought-iron gates. There was no sign to indicate the name of the residents, only a discreet "private property" sign hung in the center of the right hand gate.

She glanced at Carl, who had long ago abandoned his expensive but entirely inadequate top coat for a down-filled jacket. Sarah suppressed a giggle. The jacket looked decidedly funny against the tailored symmetry of his business suit. The overcast skies and the sharp, late April wind blowing across Puget Sound, sent him scrambling for his suitcases.

"Wow, would you look at that." He peered through the windshield to look at the looming house before them.

It wasn't so much the size of the house as its design--a soaring, glorious example of the late Victorian era, complete with a wide veranda around the first floor, a tower and cupola, and a widow's walk facing the sea. Scalloped shingles, cornices and embellished windows graced every inch of its immaculate exterior painted in harmonizing shades of green and gray, and all around it lay a wide lawn sloping down toward the shoreline. Rhododendrons and honeysuckle bushes clung to the exposed wall facing them. And atop it all, at the very peak of the curving tower, was a handsome weathervane. Sarah squinted up at it and suddenly realized it wasn't the usual trotting horse or tarnished copper rooster, but a clipper ship under full sail.

"I assume it is the family home?" Carl murmured, still gazing at the house.

"Yes. From what I've read, this was built in 1889 by Mr. McLaughlin's great- great-grandfather, James McLaughlin, a Scottish sea captain who made his fortune in shipping, particularly in lumber. The house itself is listed on the National Historic Register. Our Mr. McLaughlin, evidently, was an only child, and the handful of aunts and uncles were middle-aged when he was born."

Sarah set the parking brake and turned off the engine. "There's supposed to be a bungalow out back for the housekeeper and the gardener."

Carl stepped out of the car and craned his neck back to see the top of the cupola's roof. He gave a low whistle. "I'll bet this is one hell of a paint job."

Sarah nodded. "I saw the bill his trust paid out for last year's painting. It took a month for the trim work alone."

"Ah, there you are! You must come in!"

Startled, they both looked up at the tiny woman standing on the porch, a pair of gardening snips in one hand and a basket in the other, overflowing with freshly cut flowers. Sarah immediately thought of a dried-apple doll when she noticed the network of deep lines cris-crossing the tiny woman's round face. Once black hair, now heavily shot with gray was drawn tightly to the back of her head. Her eyes, like dark, shiny pebbles beamed at them. While her wide smile did not hide the numerous missing teeth, it could not mar the warmth of her welcome.

"You come in, now," she said in heavily accented English. "Too cold for talking." She gestured for them to follow her into the house.

Home. It felt like home. Instead of darkened old rooms and musty Victorian furniture, the house had been done over in light oak and fresh colors. Modern furniture instead of rickety antique chairs and dark, overstuffed sofas graced each room. The large front bay window commanded a breathtaking view of the wide, sweeping lawn and the Sound. To their left, a magnificent stairway swept upward to the second floor, all in gleaming mahogany.

The little woman set the basket on the hall table and put her snips down next to it. Seeing their astonished expressions, she beamed at them.

"The signore has a beautiful home, no?"

"Stunning," Carl murmured, taking in the exquisite carved balusters supporting the stair rail.

Sarah forced herself to focus on their diminutive hostess and get to business. "It is lovely. I'm Sarah Toreson, and this is Carl Bradley. We are here from Mr. Kaye's office to represent Mr. McLaughlin's estate. We're the attorneys you were told would be coming."

"Sì, I know." She took her hand and squeezed it affectionately. "I am Theresa Benuto. I am Signor Alexander's housekeeper." She glanced at Carl. "And, I cooked for him." She suddenly looked down, overcome by a rush of tears. "But, he is gone from us now. Dio." Theresa fumbled for the pocket of her house dress to find a tissue and dab at her eyes.

Embarrassed, Sarah patted her arm awkwardly. "It's all right, Theresa. I'm sure you miss him very much."

"He was so good to me, such a good boy. So thoughtful."

Carl assiduously studied the high ceiling while tapping one loafered toe, openly annoyed by Theresa's display of grief.

"Yes, well, he is dead now and we really must get on with the work at hand. We don't have a lot of time so if you'll just show us..."

Sarah shot him a venomous look and swiftly interrupted him.

"What Carl means is, why don't you show us the house, Theresa, and then we can decide where to start," she said kindly. The old woman struggled to regain her composure and replaced the tissue into her pocket with a final pat.

"Sì. You are right; I am the baby." She smiled again at Sarah and took her arm. "I show you everything--many rooms here. You are to stay the night, Sì?" she asked, the Italian lilt to her voice giving charm to her years.

"No, Theresa, we have reservations at Gull Inn in town. We won't need to stay here."

"Ah no! You must stay! I fix you dinner. The rooms are ready for you," she protested.

"We wouldn't want to impose--"

"No, no. The signore would want you to stay."

Carl ran an impatient hand through his short-cropped hair. "Whatever," he muttered. "At least this will be more comfortable than some dreary country motel."

Sarah felt her ire reach boiling point, which troubled her. What was the matter with him? There was nothing wrong with the Inn. It was charming and completely modern.

She fought another urge to scowl at him. Three days with this insufferable man!

"All right, Theresa, if you insist. We'll call the Inn and tell them to cancel."

Theresa's lined face fairly glowed with pleasure. "Okay, it is settled. Now I show you the signore's home."

Whatever misgivings she had about staying the night, vanished as she was led through Alexander McLaughlin's house. It was a family house, renovated and restored to its new-made luster and yet retaining its many lifetimes of happy memories and love. Its very walls seemed to be ingrained with the warmth and richness of endless music and joyous singing.

And in each room, she felt him--somehow knew he was there. Her mother called it her "telepathic twitch"; she called it drivel. But she sensed nothing sinister- -more like a gentle reminder, as when holding the garment of someone dear to you and breathing in their scent.

The house revealed a man bound to his home and yet sophisticated in his tastes. Books, ranging from discourses on music theory and composition to the intricacies of airplanes and flight lined the shelves of his study. Countless compact discs, mostly operatic and classical works, filled the cases in the music room, framing a state-of-the-art sound system. And reams and reams of sheet music: the libretti and the music from the vast number of operas he had performed.

A baby grand piano sat in polished splendor near the bay window overlooking the garden at the back of the house.

"This is where he worked," Theresa whispered reverently. "The walls have been fixed for the right sound. Signor Alex, he needed the right sound for his voice."

"Acoustically correct." Carl ran a tentative finger over the edge of the piano.

"Where is the rare opera score, Theresa?" Sarah asked politely. "You must know of it--the rare Verdi opera."

The old housekeeper looked at her, confused. "The 'score'? Scusi, I know nothing of this. What is this score?"

"The rare opera score. The Verdi libretto. You know, the one he bought in Europe. Surely, you knew of this, Theresa?"

Sarah glanced at Carl who was still frowning--and probably chaffing at the prospect of spending three days in virtual isolation doing a job he clearly resented.

"Come now, where is it? Mr. Owens spoke of it several times. Mr. McLaughlin had a rare opera score--a last work of some famous composer. You must have known of it?"

She shrugged eloquently. "No. I know nothing of this. Sì, he had some things, the memories of his performances." Theresa looked anxiously first to Sarah and then to Carl.

"But the manuscript...the Verdi score. You know...?" Carl's voice rose in agitation.

Her black shoe-button eyes widened, bewildered. "Signor Alex had many papers...maybe he--"

"So, where is it now?" Carl pressed.

Theresa clasped her hands together. Her face became pinched and distressed. She looked about rapidly, avoiding Carl's penetrating stare.

"Do you have it?" he asked sharply.

"Carl!"

"We need to know where that manuscript is. Now tell us, Theresa."

The woman fought renewed tears and shook her head helplessly. "I think it is with him and...God," she whispered, crossing herself.

"You mean, it went down with him in the plane?" Sarah moved toward the distraught woman and placed a comforting arm around her. Theresa nodded, now openly weeping.

"Sì. Maybe. He take some papers with him that day. He was to go to Victoria, in his plane."

Carl turned away disgusted and threw his hands up in the air. "Great, just great. What will Owens say? That thing was supposedly priceless."

"Well, it's too late to worry about it. It's gone and that's that," Sarah said firmly. "We have a lot of work to do, taking inventory of this place. You can call Owens in the morning and tell him. In the meantime, why don't you go out and get the suitcases out of the car?"

Carl nodded and slipped past the weeping Theresa and out to the car.

"I'm sorry Theresa, Carl is rather tactless. He just flew in from New York, so I guess he's tired and irritable. Try to forgive him."

Theresa sniffed and again tried to wipe away her tears.

"Sì, okay. I'm sorry. All I do is cry now. It is like when I lost my poor Joe. It is so terrible for Alexander! He was too young."

Sarah nodded, trying not to show her impatience. Her innate kindness struggled against the urgency of their job; she had no desire to listen to three days of weeping and hysterics while this dear woman grieved for her dead employer.

"Look, Theresa," she thought frantically, "why don't you show me a picture of him? You know, I can just barely remember what he looked like. I met him only once." She smiled, encouragingly, hoping to put the little woman at ease.

"Signor Alex did not like to see himself in pictures. He said he sees it enough at the opera, but there is one I will show you. His good friend take this picture not long ago. You will like it."

Happy in her new task, Theresa waddled ahead of Sarah until she came to the end of a short corridor, adjacent to the study. She gestured to the wall.

"You see?"

It took a moment for Sarah to absorb the picture, a large photograph, obviously taken by a professional.

Her memories of him and that afternoon had faded somewhat, but the photograph brought them rushing back into abrupt focus. She and Mr. Kaye had taken him to lunch after their meeting. Looking at him now, her memory did not do the portrait justice.

Alexander McLaughlin was no aging, dignified opera star, but a man too remarkable to believe. The proud face looking back at her revealed a man at the peak of his career and supremely confident in himself. For the sake of his art and profession, his thick, dark hair was longer than most men's, brushed back off a high forehead and falling in deep waves over the collar of his evening jacket. He possessed high, fine cheekbones, offset by a straight nose and a firm-lipped, serious mouth.

Sarah stared at the portrait. She did remember those eyes and their magnetism--fierce, blue eyes. He was a renaissance prince. A lion. Magnificent.

"I had forgotten..." she breathed softly.

Theresa nodded. "You like him, Sì?"

"I remember... What was he like?"

"He was so good, and when he sings!" She clasped her hands to her breast and sighed. "He sings like a god!"

"How long did you know him?"

"Since he was a boy. So young to have the voice. His mama knew this when he was twelve."

"Did she sing too?"

"Sì. She had a beautiful voice, a mezzo."

Sarah shook her head, bewildered. "A mezzo? Forgive me, I know almost nothing about opera."

"Signora McLaughlin, his mama, was a soprano with the lower voice, a mezzo soprano. Her voice was her gift to him." Theresa gestured to the photograph.

Sarah returned her gaze to the extraordinary image on the wall. The photographer easily captured the deep fire in those eyes, but Sarah wondered about the trace of sadness--a hint of bitter regret.

"He must have been a remarkable person and performer."

"A great man. I see that you like him." She smiled broadly. "Maybe he will sing for you."

* * *

Dinner became a stiff, uncomfortable affair made more so with Carl constantly patronizing Theresa. The little woman went to great lengths to please them, serving a delectable blend of Italian and American dishes. Alexander McLaughlin certainly ate well, Sarah mused.

Carl picked at his food, paying Theresa backhanded compliments about her cooking until Sarah wanted to slap him. Finally, either the jet lag or fatigue caught up with him and he retired early to one of the guest rooms.

Relieved of their tormentor, Sarah offered to help Theresa with the dishes and found herself at the sink with a large, white dishtowel tied around her waist to protect her suit--a perfect opportunity to ask her about Alexander.

"Did he stay here often?"

"No, not so often since he became famous. He lived here, a little bit in the summer when there was no opera in New York. Sometimes the opera in Seattle asked for him to sing. So, he stayed here. The signore loved it here. He laughed and he sang, fortissimo! Loud and strong." She smiled at the memory. "You hear him all the way into the town! And, he sang for me, Sì. Sometimes, he makes the little jokes." Theresa stopped her washing and stared into the soapy water.

"Is that why he was here, this past spring, when he died? To sing for the opera?" Sarah asked gently.

Theresa nodded. "He sang in 'Don Carlos'. He was the king!" she said proudly.

The information had no meaning for Sarah. She'd never even seen an opera, except for the occasional glance at one being shown on television. Too boring, and all that screeching.

With the dishes done there was nothing else to do. Theresa seemed unwilling to talk any further and hastily made her goodbyes, promising to have their breakfast ready promptly at seven.

Sarah wandered aimlessly from room to room. It was too late to start working. Theresa assured her that it would be all right for her to watch the television, or listen to the stereo system, or anything else she might want to do. None of them interested her.

Instead, she found herself drawn irresistibly to the corridor outside the study to look at Alexander's photograph. The lamps from the study cast a soft light across his patrician features, making him appear more lifelike. Impulsively, Sarah touched the firm mouth with one fingertip.

"What happened to you?"

There was no answer, but the haunted eyes seemed to penetrate right through her, as if examining the very texture of her bones.

Backing away from the portrait, she glanced across the hall into the music room. The piano gleamed ebony-soft in the waning evening light. She looked at the portrait again, then to the piano. It was easy to imagine him at the piano and singing--singing in a voice that probably filled the room and the entire house.

She stepped into the music room and began examining the magnificent sound system and the floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with compact discs. Without thinking, she pressed on the power button and fitted the plug of the earphones into the appropriate outlet. No use in waking everyone.

From the endless collection, she finally selected one CD with Alexander's picture on the front. "Italian Arias: Donizetti and Bellini". Sarah shrugged, not knowing one operatic composer from the next and slipped the silvery disc into the player. She set the earphones over her head and hit the play button.

"Might as well find out what this guy sounded like."

By the throat. His voice took her by the throat and by her heart, demanding her attention, commanding her to listen to every riveting note. A knife-edged tempo, consumed by such power and his complete command of the music, left her disoriented and bewildered. Sarah sucked in her breath, almost reeling from the impact of his anger.

Outrage! Dishonor! Vengeance!

She fumbled for the booklet accompanying the disc and flipped to the aria he was singing. A prince, furious, jealous and dishonored, proclaiming his vengeance. On and on he raged, filling up the music with his deep resonant voice. She now knew why he was world-renowned, why people stood in endless lines to hear him sing. A voice that matched the stunning portrait.

Sarah jerked off the earphones, trembling. Her spine seemed to dance with sudden chills. With shaking hands, she turned the stereo system off and set the earphones back on the table. She didn't dare listen to anything else, but quickly left Alexander's music room.

Her eye caught the faint reflection from the portrait and she stopped to look at it again, daring herself to look at those tormented eyes. They were not the same. The trace of bitterness she had seen before now appeared like...terror.

Her mind was playing tricks: a dark house, a dead man. A gothic thriller. Her heart hammered in her chest as she backed away from the portrait. The eyes were the same; she willed them to be the same. It was her own eyes deceiving her and her overactive imagination.

If her eyes were lying, her heart was not. Something had changed by listening to his voice.

Something terrible. Something deadly.

Chapter Two

Theresa struggled slowly up the stairs, leaning heavily against the railing.

"Theresa, isn't there anyone else who can help you with the housework? I'm going to speak with Mr. Kaye and find you a helper, until the estate is settled. It is ridiculous for you to take care of a house this big, with all the stairs to climb. I'll speak to him on Monday," Sarah said firmly.

"Bah! I do fine," Theresa said dismissively. At the top of the stairs, she stopped, breathing hard from her exertions.

Sarah frowned. "No, Theresa. This is far too much. You need help and I won't hear another word." She wagged a warning finger at the diminutive housekeeper.

"I always take care of the signore and I will always do so," she said firmly.

"The 'signore' would not want you to do things that are much too difficult for you. Please, Theresa, I must insist."

Theresa studied her with bird-like eyes. "You cannot take away my promise!" she said suddenly. "It is my promise to la Donna Anna--I always take care of Alexander, from when he was little. I do this!"

"No, no," Sarah soothed, patting her arm. "No one will take away your position; we'll just bring in some extra help. But Theresa, soon you will have to think about living someplace else--perhaps with your son, Joey." Sarah hesitated, trying to select her next words with care. "Theresa, Alexander is gone. He is...he is in heaven with God, as you say. You must let him go," she said gently.

The old housekeeper looked down, tears threatening to brim her eyes. "I know this, but I cannot..." She stopped, lips trembling. She pulled another tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. "He was such a good man, not like the other divos--so prideful..."

"I know," Sarah said helplessly, "but we must try not to think of him in a sad way. Come, you promised to show me his room so I can inventory the clothes. Okay?" She shook Theresa's arm gently, hoping to quiet some of her grief.

Theresa nodded, sniffed again, and cleared her throat. "Again, I cry like a baby." She smiled helplessly. "Come, I will show you." She returned the friendly pat. "And I think you are right. Maybe a nice girl from town to help with the vacuum and the dusting." Theresa wagged her own warning finger at Sarah. "But I am still the cook, the boss!"

"Okay, Theresa. You're the boss, but we'll get you a helper."

The housekeeper turned and led her into Alexander's master suite, stopping just inside the doorway.

"Wow," Sarah breathed, taking in the massive tester bed and the gorgeous down comforters spread over it. To her left, placed before a television was a large comfortable-looking sofa with masses of pillows tucked into the sides. To the back of the room she noticed the entrance to his private bath and an enormous walk-in closet. The bathroom was immaculate in oak and brass, finished in hunter green: a man's bath. She stepped into the huge closet and spun around slowly, taking in the racks of clothes and shelves stacked with accessories and personal items. She caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the floor-to-ceiling mirror built into the back wall of the closet. For once she didn't despair over her appearance: neat fitting jeans and a dark blue, silk blouse. Her shoulder-length brown hair had been caught up in a gold clasp, accentuating her dark eyes. She actually looked pretty for once, but quickly dismissed all thoughts of her looks when she heard Theresa enter the closet.

"I can see I'll be busy all morning." Sarah touched a sleeve to one of the numerous jackets. "He certainly had plenty of clothes."

Theresa smiled indulgently. "Most of these he get from his wife."

Sarah's head snapped up, at once interested in what Theresa had to say. "His wife? I thought he was divorced?"

"Sì. But when he was married to her, she buy him many, many things. Of course, it is his money." She shrugged. "She wanted a...pretty boy for the parties, so she could take his arm, like so..." Theresa did a funny little strut around the room, her nose in the air.

"I take it you didn't like her?" Sarah observed wryly.

"Bah! She was no good. She only marry him for his name and his money. She never loved him. I saw this the first day. Maria Peccetti! Stupid bitch!" Theresa spat the name like she had something foul-tasting in her mouth.

"Theresa!"

"He hate her too, after a time. Always she follows him, always she nags him." Theresa looked up at Sarah. "Alexander came here to escape her. Here, he is safe."

"I see. Maria did not bother him here?"

Theresa shook her head. "Maria stay here only twice. The first, when they get married; the second when he tell her to go away forever!"

"They fought?"

Theresa shuddered at the memory. "Alexander was so angry. I never see him so full of rage. Doors slam. Bam! She throws things like a crazy woman. He tells her to get out and never come back."

"Why did they divorce?" Sarah asked cautiously.

"She cheat on him," Theresa said matter-of-factly, shrugging again. "Too many lovers and this hurts him for all his friends to see."

Sarah nodded. "I'm sure," she murmured. She touched the coat sleeve again. Bribes--lying attempts to buy his affections and with his own money. She wondered how many of the numerous items in his closet he actually wore.

Sarah forced herself to get busy and give up her imaginings over his long- dissolved, tumultuous marriage. One side of the closet contained his formal and business attire: flawless suits cut to perfection, several of the dress white tie and tails, tuxedos and dinner jackets. Sarah ran her hand over the impeccable material, trying to imagine how he must have looked in them--immaculate in white shirt and wing collar, flaring white bow tie set off by the trim lapels of the tailcoat.

The other side held his everyday clothing: slacks and jeans, freshly laundered shirts and several jackets. Her hand brushed against the rich texture of a dark brown lambskin jacket, butter-soft and lined in fleece. Sarah glanced out into the room to see if Theresa was there. The old housekeeper had disappeared and she knew Carl was still downstairs going through the endless collection of compact discs.

Unable to stop herself, Sarah tugged the jacket from the hanger and pressed her face into its soft folds. A warm, male scent, heavy with the smells of the outdoors and a hint of cedar filled her senses. She knew Maria had not given him this jacket. Its very feel made him all the more real to her and quite suddenly she realized he had worn it that day three years ago, and she had wanted to touch it...touch him.

Once over her school-girl awe of him, she had relaxed and allowed herself to enjoy their conversation at lunch; listened to him talk, felt the texture and shape of his voice, like being touched by dark velvet.

She knew she had read too much in his flattering gaze and devastating smile. Men like him did not encourage women like her. She would always be just his estate attorney and he would remain forever beyond her reach or her heart. Alexander McLaughlin undoubtedly preferred women like Maria: fiery and sophisticated. Determined. Decisive.

Maybe that's why she hadn't become a trial lawyer--no backbone. It certainly was the reason why she had failed with Paul--the endless arguing and ugly confrontations.

She stopped her musings, embarrassed. Hastily, she rehung the leather jacket to its rightful place and jotted it down on her pad.

What am I doing? she scolded herself angrily. If anyone had seen her... Firmly, she pushed the rest of her fanciful notions to the back of her mind and continued her cataloging.

The man is dead. Get a life, girl.

* * *

The sound came from deep within her, a sound she first felt more than heard. It rose slowly, building its momentum until she could just make out words; words she did not understand, but were clear and defined. It became a singing voice, a man's voice soft and resonant, engulfing her, smothering her with its dark beauty.

Sarah sat up, clutching the sheets to her and looked around frantically. There was no one in the room. Nothing--only the white lace curtains fluttering softly against the crack in the window. There was no one there and yet she distinctly felt as if someone, a presence, was near her. It was so close, a trace of something threatening and yet cautious.

His song, the same aria she had heard the night before became louder, more insistent, as if demanding her to focus upon its unendurable suffering. Its intense blackness resonated through her inner ear, at the baseline of her jaw and reverberated down behind her breastbone until she shook in terror.

Sarah fumbled for the light and snapped it on. There was no one in the room. She forced herself to sit still and take a firmer grip on her sanity. It was no dream, either. The feel of the sound and its sinister harmony beat through her even more strongly, more insistently.

"There are no ghosts," she said as firmly and as rationally as her shaking voice would allow. But the inner voice would not go away. It was all-consuming and she was drowning in it. She felt a kind of desperation, an urgency engulf her mind, blotting out the ability to think clearly. She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead.

A terrified, ragged whisper escaped her lips.

"Go away."

Then, she felt his coldness and the endless water. Loneliness and despair--a despair so black, so terrible, she couldn't fathom the depth of it. So much fear-- grinding, unrelenting fear.

"Stop, stop!"

Abruptly it did stop. Silence, profound and dark, hung breathlessly within her. Even in the silence Sarah sensed he was still present, watching her and waiting. Expectancy eddied around the corners of her mind, tense and fearful.

In a trembling voice that matched her terror, Sarah managed to speak again.

"Leave me alone."

Like melting fog, the strange presence slipped away and vanished, leaving her empty and bewildered. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sarah clutched at the remnants of the dream or memory, telling herself, willing herself, not to believe what she had heard. Nothing that terrifying could be real.

* * *

Carl nearly laughed at her.

"Sarah," he said with exaggerated patience, as if explaining something to a small child, "there are no ghosts, no wandering spirits, nothing. You were dreaming or hallucinating--a borderline nut-case. Listen, when we're done, you go back to Seattle and find a good psychoanalyst and you'll be fine. Okay?"

He dismissed the entire issue by the lifting of one arrogant brow then turned away to resume his cataloging of the numerous books in Alexander's study.

Sarah folded her arms across her chest. "I know what I heard."

"Sarah." Carl's voice suddenly crackled with annoyance. "Forget it. Let's get this damn job done and get out of here!"

Sullen, angry, Sarah all but slammed her laptop computer on the desk and snapped it open. There had been something there and she heard it. She bit her lip, holding back a sharp retort and sat down.

Tell him to go to hell, stupid. Tell him to pack his calfskin briefcase, his Yale degree and go back to his whirling little New York scene.

She had heard it, a man singing, deep and soft like an old memory brushing the back of her mind. It was as clear as if someone had been in the room, and he had sung in Italian, the same aria she heard the previous night.

Maybe I am hallucinating, she thought wearily.

Sarah pushed her nighttime experience away as she began digging into the enormous mountain of books shelved behind her.

Alexander McLaughlin had been a voracious reader. Not only did he possess an amazing variety of books pertaining to music and opera, but a remarkable collection of books on historical events and people. A well-thumbed copy of a book on sixteenth-century Spain had been marked and highlighted in several places, especially pertaining to a King Philip.

Sarah noted the book on the computer and set it back down on the stack to her left. Whatever would possess an opera star to study about a sixteenth century Spanish king was beyond her...unless it had something to do with what Theresa had said about him. He had sung the role of the king. King Philip?

After four hours, Carl finally stood up to stretch and arch his back. "Look, I need to take a walk. You want to come along?"

Sarah shook her head. "I'll stay here a while longer. I need to call Mr. Kaye and ask him a couple things. You go on ahead."

She offered Carl a slight smile of reconciliation. Once they had gotten over the discussion of her nocturnal visitation, he had been almost pleasant. Almost.

Carl shrugged and slipped out, leaving her to observe the jumble of stacked books and papers scattered over every level space in the study. Boxes were lined up near the door, filled with more books and sheet music.

In spite of their best efforts, they found no priceless Verdi score. Sarah felt like a criminal rifling through every drawer in the house, and poking into all the closets and cabinets. Regardless of their responsibility, she began to see herself as a kind of legal voyeur, prying and spying into Alexander McLaughlin's private possessions. And surprisingly, there hadn't been much in the way of private papers. No letters, no contracts--presumably handled by his people in New York-- and no bills. Of course, all the bills came to the law office to be paid from the trust, even Theresa's salary. There were magazines and several old photo albums and notebooks filled with entries concerning music and role characterizations.

But no rare opera score.

Sarah yawned, shoved the laptop away, and got up. She was getting numb and decided to find Theresa.

She slipped out the back door into the warm April afternoon; a sudden change from the cold bleakness of the day before. Theresa was busy digging in the soft garden soil, planting new spring bulbs.

The old woman looked up. "Ah, Sarah, you come here." She gestured sharply for her. "You bring me the bucket over there."

Sarah picked up a green plastic bucket lying on the ground with some garden tools, "This one?" She held it up so Theresa could see it.

"...Sì...that one. Grazi. And help me up."

Sarah helped her stand, patting the gnarled hand that gripped her arm. It was apparent Theresa suffered from arthritis and Sarah secretly wondered how she had managed for so long to tend such a glorious garden. Except for the man who came in now and again to mow the lawns, she was alone with the care of the entire house and grounds.

"You shouldn't do this by yourself, Theresa. I told you we'll get you some help until the estate is settled."

"I do fine. I don't need nobody. Even since my Joe die, I do the garden myself. Sometimes my little Joey comes by to see me."

Sarah nodded indulgently, knowing full well that "little Joey" was probably past forty with a house full of kids.

"Well, I'll feel better when you get some more help. Maybe some local boy could come in a couple times a week for now?"

Theresa grinned up at her, showing her few remaining teeth. "Sì. Okay, but I do something for you."

Sarah helped her gather up the gardening tools and put them into her box. "Actually, there is something you can do for me, or tell me. Last night, I heard the strangest thing and I'm wondering if you've heard it too. Carl thinks I'm nuts, but I think Carl is the only one Carl will listen to."

Theresa made a face at the mention of his name and waved her hand disparagingly. "This Carl has no soul," she whispered fiercely.

Sarah lifted the little tool box and shifted it under her arm. "Theresa, have you been hearing music lately, I mean singing?"

Theresa shrugged. "Maybe yes. I play my phonograph, but not so loud."

"No, I don't think it was your music, because I heard it very late last night."

"What do you hear?"

"A man singing...opera. It was fairly faint at first, but gradually I could make out words. Of course, it was in Italian, I think, so I can't understand..."

Theresa suddenly clutched at her arm, her shoe button eyes bright with alarm. "You hear him sing the opera?"

"Who?"

"What does his voice sound like?" Theresa demanded, her own voice cracking with tension.

"Well, very deep and soft and very strong. Theresa, what's the matter?"

"Dio," she muttered, hastily crossing herself. "He is still with us."

Sarah's eyes widened. "You mean Alexander, don't you? Theresa, that's not possible. He can't 'come back.'" Carl's dismissive words came back to her, but even his cynicism couldn't dispel the memory of what she had heard.

"Sarah if he sings again, you listen to him. Do you understand? You must hear him next time. The Signor Alexander...you..."

She took Theresa by the shoulders and shook her gently. "What are you talking about? Theresa, Alexander McLaughlin is dead. You can't tell me his ghost is singing to me, for God's sake. That's just ridiculous."

Theresa studied her for a moment. "How do you know this, eh? You say there are no ghosts. I say, 'Sì', okay no ghosts. But Sarah, Signor Alex was so unhappy." Tears filled the tiny housekeeper's eyes as she clung at Sarah's hands. "Maybe his soul cries out. So, will you listen?"

Sarah pondered Theresa's words, still unable to believe such a ridiculous argument. But, something was going on in her head and maybe Theresa's, too.

"What do you think I should do, hire a priest to exorcize the house?"

Theresa looked back at her, aghast at her near blasphemy.

"Or, should I see a psychiatrist, like Carl recommended and confess I hear a dead opera singer?"

"You must do nothing like that!" Theresa exclaimed, her small, round face a picture of anxiety.

"Well, what do you suggest? I need to know what's going on, or I'll go crazy."

For a long moment, Sarah watched Theresa's distressed face. Finally, she spoke.

"When the signore sings again, you must listen!"

Before Sarah could say another word, Theresa quickly gathered up her gardening box and turned away, hurrying off to her bungalow behind the garden.

Sarah watched her go. What could the old woman have meant--listen to him sing? She spoke as if Alexander were still alive.

She turned and climbed the stairs to the house, angry and perplexed. There was work to do and she couldn't waste time worrying over Theresa's strange advice. The old woman's grief had made her irrational, that's all there was too it.

Sarah took a hard grip on professional reasoning and dismissed Theresa's ranting. They had two days left to finish their work and she was determined to do it, if only to get Carl and Theresa out of her life.

She re-entered the study and sat down at the desk, resolved to finish the work. Her laptop screen glared at her like a pitiless eye, until she returned its stare...and noticed what was on it.

Icy tendrils of fear lanced up her back. Two words were inexplicably imprinted on the screen. Sarah's mouth turned cotton-dry as she stared at those two, chilling words.

'Find me'

Chapter Three

It was going to happen again. She knew it, felt it. Sarah stared out the bedroom window onto the glistening lawns below her, every muscle a tightening knot as she mindlessly clutched at the curtain. Irrational and demented. That's what Carl would call her, but there was no escaping the unreasonable fear gripping at her heart.

She saw those words and knew she was not imagining it--and showing Carl had been a mistake. She could still hear his mocking voice even over the painful thudding of her heart.

"I suppose you think I did it? Come on, Sarah. Why would I do such a stupid thing?" Carl had pulled off his glasses and pushed his hand through his hair. "You're lost in romantic fantasizing. Delusional."

"Then who typed this?" she demanded.

"How the hell should I know!"

Carl dismissed her and the strange computer entry. She could almost hear him scolding her: It's bunk, woman. Get a grip.

The ominous, chilling feeling remained with her for the rest of the day. Jumpy as a cat, she couldn't eat the delicious dinner Theresa had so carefully prepared for them. With the night, Sarah found herself too restless to stay indoors. She paced the wet, lush grass around the house, stood on the shallow shoreline and gazed out at the Sound watching the deep-hulled freighters slip by in the distance.

She deliberately avoided the portrait and firmly shut the door to the music room.

* * *

Sarah waited, scarcely breathing. The frisson of her fear allowed her only tiny gasps of air. She knew he was coming. Every nerve-ending felt super-sensitized so that she knew the very weave in the curtain and heard the faint ticking of her alarm clock. She strained to hear his voice until it finally came, slowly at first, building in intensity. Louder and louder, the words became clearer and sharper until she could hear every syllable, every nuance to the point where she detected each breath between phrases.

Cautiously, she sat up; her heart pounding in terror. Like the night before, Sarah felt the presence of his voice within her, deep and resonant. She sensed the color and shape of his despair as it gathered in intensity and form, pushing harder at her, forcing her to listen to his bitterness.

Again, the same aria, aching and angry. Sarah pressed her hands over her ears to try and stop the sound.

"Stop it!" she whispered fiercely. "Go away!"

Like before, it did stop, but he did not leave her, as if he were waiting--poised for her next words.

Slowly, Sarah forced herself to take deep breaths. "I don't believe in this," she said, almost angrily.

Stay calm, it will go away. It's just your imagination going crazy.

Without thinking she blurted out the first thing that came to her. "Tell me what you want?" she asked and then waited expectantly, still feeling the presence in her mind.

A soft shudder coursed up her back as she felt...something move and shift gently as if being brushed with dark velvet or silk--the barest touch, the lightest caress that evoked the deepest tenderness. Like evaporating smoke, he slipped down and away from her consciousness, leaving nothing but a trace of a whispered thought touching her inner ear: "Please, help me."

* * *

Sarah awoke from a restless sleep to the sound of a different voice filtering upstairs from the study--Carl's voice. She glanced at the clock, ignoring the pale threads of dawn filtering into the room. Six a.m. What was Carl doing on the phone at six in the morning? Carl knew no one in Seattle...at least he had never mentioned knowing anyone.

She eased out of bed and fumbled for her robe. Carl's voice was louder now; he sounded almost frantic, panicky.

Once downstairs, Sarah stopped at the doorway and watched him, still dressed in his bathrobe pacing about the room. The telephone cord trailed behind him like an obedient pet as he ranted into the receiver.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Owens, I just don't know. The old lady said it went down with him in the plane. No...I don't know where. The Verdi score is lost...I'm sorry. Yes sir, I asked her that. Yes, the safety deposit box was checked; Miss Toreson confirmed that. Yes sir, I know it's frustrating but we'll keep looking. Yes sir. I'll call the moment we know anything. Yes, yes...goodbye."

Carl hung up the receiver and visibly slumped as if in defeat. Sarah made a small noise and he turned to her, his face flushed.

"We've got to find that score. Owens is furious. I told him it was gone, but he won't listen." Carl stopped and looked down at his bare feet, shaking his head. "I just don't get it."

Sarah sighed. "Maybe Theresa was right. Maybe it went down in the plane with him."

"Well, why the hell was he going to Canada anyway with that score?" Carl asked irritably. "It just doesn't make any sense." He ran a hand through his short- clipped hair and pulled off his glasses.

"Maybe Theresa knows?" she ventured.

"No! I mean, no. Don't bother with Theresa, she'll just cry. Damn!" Carl began pacing again, picking up things and setting them down.

"Carl, for heaven's sake, cool off. The thing's gone. Why can't you accept it?"

"Oh yeah? Well, it's my ass, Sarah, if I don't find it."

"Owens would fire you? Why?"

Carl stopped pacing and looked up at the ceiling, avoiding her stare. "Because a month ago, I was the fool who returned McLaughlin's original will to someone it didn't belong to--the codicils too."

"You returned his original will to someone else? Who?" Sarah asked in an almost incomprehensible squeak.

"Mrs. Alexander McLaughlin...Maria Peccetti."

Sarah's eyes widened, horrified. "But they were divorced over three years ago."

"Yeah, tell me about it. I hadn't been informed at the time. Like the sucker I was, I handed it over to her."

"That's...that's unthinkable. You returned Mr. McLaughlin's will to his ex-wife? How could you do such a thing?"

So, the slick New York attorney had a hole in his impeccable Yale-armor after all--a great big one.

"You could face criminal charges...fraud...malpractice."

He held up his hand. "I know, I know. You don't need to tell me anything."

"What happened? Did you report it?"

"Oh, sure. It was lunchtime; all the secretaries were out, Owens and the other partners too. I must have been the only one in the office and she comes in claiming that her husband needed to look at his will again--to make some changes, I guess. Jesus, she was smooth. She even had the right I.D. I got the thing out of the safe and had her sign for the damn thing--slick as silk. It wasn't until later I realized my mistake. Owens went ballistic--McLaughlin nearly sued our asses off."

"How much later?"

"About a week." Carl shook his head slowly and closed his eyes. "I'm the biggest idiot on the planet. I can't believe I did it myself. Now Owens is a nano- second away from firing me and making sure I never practice law again."

"But Maria Peccetti isn't in the will, she won't get anything."

"I know, but here's the weird thing: she brought it back. No one can figure it out. She knew she wasn't in McLaughlin's will, so why the elaborate hoax? Owens is holding me personally responsible for the whole thing. The reputation of the firm is riding on this. He did some fancy groveling to McLaughlin and then gave me a second chance to exonerate myself. That's why he wants that opera score so badly. I guess he and McLaughlin were pals or something. According to Owens, that opera manuscript is listed in McLaughlin's will as a specific bequest. The only saving grace in all of this is that McLaughlin made a new will shortly before he died."

Sarah took a deep breath and swallowed. Carl's mistake was unbelievably serious--legally and professionally.

"What happens if we don't find the score?" she asked in a small voice.

"The McLaughlin estate may lose a potentially valuable asset and I'm on the street with a tin cup and an accordion."

A sick dread shot through Sarah's stomach. There was even the slight chance her own firm could be implicated--their reputation sullied by sheer association with the New York attorneys. Dear Mr. Kaye, a small-time attorney, an old, faithful firm having served the McLaughlin family since the days of the sea captain himself. What if that score really was valuable; worth millions--and they were unable to find it? What then?

Carl thrust on his glasses, picked up his clipboard and pen. "How much more have we got to do?" he asked quietly.

Sarah clutched at her stomach, fighting the sudden nausea. "I've pretty much completed the upstairs, the guest rooms, all the furniture and clothes. You've got the music room done and I've almost completed the study. We've got the kitchen left, living and dining room and the garage."

Carl nodded, once again business-like. "Okay, I'll do the garage. Christ! Maybe he hid it out there," he muttered.

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