Bullets of rain battered the roof. Suzanne Becklin sat on the edge of the bed watching Liz pack. Since their teenage years, Liz had referred to her friend as "tall, stunning, traffic-stopping Suzanne." Her bright red hair tumbled in thick waves over her shoulders, and she managed a commanding height of five-foot-ten with elegance. Liz always joked that she, too, could make a grand entrance, it just took a lot more mirror time.

Suzanne peered into the bulging suitcase. "I thought you shortened this trip to three days."

Liz folded another blouse and placed it on top. "Two. But you never know about the weather in Boston."

"You're going to give your mother some notice, aren't you?"

"I'll call her tonight."

"Maybe hearing about your new break will make her ease up about your career."

"Don't count on it."

"I don't know, Liz, when I got the job as Musical Director for Amy Renoir, your mom was pretty thrilled. She even sent me a nice bouquet of flowers."

"That was you, Suz, not me. She was ecstatic when you married Rob, remember? To her, if it doesn't involve a husband, it's not the real thing."

Liz and Suzanne's friendship went back to grade school, when they'd taken their first piano lessons together at six. Suzanne was already tall enough to reach the sustain pedal, while Liz was still sitting on a phone book to reach the keys.

"I thought she'd be excited when I told her I'd landed Marty Steinhauser as my manager--the same manager who's turning your boss, Amy, into a household name. You know what Mom said? That being famous was okay for Amy, but it's no life for a married lady."

"She's just scared for you. Once you're successful, I'll bet it'll calm her fears."

"I hope it'll calm mine," Liz said.

"There's no security in the creative world, that's for sure."

Liz flopped down on the bed. "I know. But I still replay these damn fears late at night. Ben's words painted a scene that isn't far off the mark. The years are racing by, and I've got nothing saved. Even if the concerts last, there's no guarantee I'll get a recording contract, or that I'll earn enough to build a nest egg." She jumped up. "Oh, listen to me! I'm letting my mother's cynicism get to me."

"That's fear talking," Suzanne said, peering into the suitcase. "Got your ticket?"

"Picked it up yesterday." She rummaged through her purse. "Where did I put it? Oh no. No! I left it at Germaine's. Dammit! It was in my hand when I walked into the office with Sonnie."

"Next time try an electronic one, Liz. We can run over now and get it."

"No, it'd take all night in this rain. I'll stop by on the way to the airport in the morning. You want some coffee?"

"Do you have any of that orange spice tea? I'll have a quick one, then I've got to go. I can catch the end of the game with Rob."

"Ah, marriage." She pulled two cups from the cupboard.

"Quiet nights behind closed doors can be a lot of fun."

"I know, and I want that someday too, but right now I've got to get four new songs ready every week. And they'd better be hot. If I blow this, no record company this side of the moon will give me a second shot."

"I'll bet you've got at least two hundred songs you've never done anything with."

"I'll be dusting those off for sure," Liz said. "But my career--my whole future is riding on this."

"You're up to the job. You've got all the ingredients--a great band, killer songs. What's to be nervous about?"

"I know I'm lucky to have the guys in the band. They've stuck with me through some hard times."

Suzanne let the tea bag bob up and down in her cup. "Your wave is rollin' in, Liz. Relax and ride it."

"You're talking logic; I'm talking real life." Liz stood in the doorway and looked across the living room, making a mental checklist of things to be done before she left. Her music case next to the piano reminded her that she'd promised to choose some new songs for her precocious seven-year-old piano student, Sherice Williams. She withdrew a book of popular songs and set it on the kitchen counter.

"You're not taking your music to Boston, are you?" Suzanne asked.

"No, I told Sherice I'd find some new songs for her. It's always a challenge to be ready for her next lesson."

A small pink note card was wedged inside the book's binding. Liz pulled it out and stared at it. Was this someone's deranged idea of a love affair?

She gaped at the words:

Soon you and I will share the harmony of eternal peace.

Her knees went weak. She dropped into a chair.

"What's wrong?" Suzanne said, looking first at Liz, then at the card. Eternal peace? What's this all about?"

Liz's words were barely audible. "This isn't the first--"

"Tell me."

Liz described the card she'd found at the studio, and another left for her at Brogino's. "This jerk says he always gets what he wants, and he wants to save me from Sam Brogino."

"For all eternity," Suzanne said, nodding toward the card Liz had dropped on the table. "Jeez, Liz, you'd better call the police."

Liz stared at the card, not moving.

"You going to call?"

Liz glanced at the clock and sighed. "I have to be up at four o'clock to make the plane, and with the time change I'm going to be dragging as it is. I can't spend the next three hours at the station. I've got to get a little sleep."

"How much sleep are you going to get knowing there's some screwball out there with his sights on you?"

The color drained from Liz's face. "Good point."

"You want to come home with me and leave from there in the morning?"

"No, I've got to wash my hair and pack a few things. I'll be lucky to get to bed by midnight. But how would you feel about crashing here?

You can have the bedroom. I'll take the couch."

Suzanne nodded. "I guess I could do that. I'll call Rob."

"You'll miss the game."

"Like I care about a football game. What about the police?"

"I'll go as soon as I get back." She walked to the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of red wine. "On the bright side, I'm getting out of this garbage heap of a town for a few days."

The second storm began around midnight, blowing into a cloudburst by the time Liz tossed her bags into her car at five-fifteen Friday morning. When she pulled in front of Germaine's fifteen minutes later, the wind was howling. Rain hammered her umbrella as she stepped out on the curb.

She used the key Sonnie had given her to let herself in.

The smell of dust and plaster mixed with a heavy musky fragrance. Once her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she passed the photos on the wall and turned to enter the lounge. She was able to guide herself by a narrow stream of light coming from the bar area. The cleaning crew must have already arrived, she thought, glad to know she wasn't the only one who worked offbeat hours. In the lounge, she cut a path between the tables, heading toward the office in the back.

She flipped on the light. Her ticket lay on the table by the desk. Way to go, Hanlon. If scientists figured out a way to remove the brain from the skull and leave it somewhere, she was in trouble. She packed the ticket inside her purse, and was looking around for a pen and paper when she heard an odd scraping noise. Workers moving furniture around? She scribbled a note to Sonnie, telling him she'd booked the hair stylist from the David Letterman show for the guys, hoping that would soothe his nerves.

Something was being dragged in the lounge. She started out from behind the desk, forgetting she'd left a drawer open. Her knee crashed into it, she fell backward against a metal typing table, knocking it against a wall.

"Ugh!" she cried out. She rubbed her knee, dropped the note on Sonnie's computer keyboard, tossed her purse over her shoulder and limped toward the lounge.

Something dropped with a thud. As she entered the lounge, the back door clicked shut.

The room was dark. The night-light that had lit her way in was gone. She moved slowly, cursing herself for never noticing the light switches in the lounge, following the curve of the bar, inching her way forward.

Her next step sent her stumbling. She felt bricks beside a pile of two-by-fours at the base of the partially dismantled brick wall. As she started to step over them, the tip of her shoe hit something soft.

The darkness blinded her. She bent down and reached around until her hand bumped against a grainy chunk of wood. She groped sideways, searching in the dark until her fingers skimmed a long mass of smooth, ribbon-like fibers, the silky texture out of place in the construction debris. Reflexively, she brushed her hand against something round, fleshy, warm.

She yanked back her hand. It was sticky, damp. Her breath caught in her throat. She struggled to her feet, groped her way back to the bar, and retraced her steps to the office doorway. Inside, she fumbled for the light switch, snapped it on, and gaped at the blotchy dark stain on her palm. She spun around, and stepped into the lounge again where the light shone on a small area of the bar and a few tables. Her eyes cut across the room.

A woman's body lay in the rubble, her arms and legs draped unnaturally, her dark hair caught in a heap of plaster and nails. Blood oozed onto the debris.

Slowly, Liz realized she was looking at the body of her cousin, Gina McCurdy. A strangled sound erupted from Liz's throat, a scream that would not resound. She reeled backwards. Her hand caught a barstool for support. She sucked in her breath and pushed her voice into action.

The sickening stillness wrapped around her. The rain pounded the roof. "Is anyone there?"

Paralyzed, yet afraid to stay where she was, she felt trapped by what seemed like an ugly nightmare. A phone. Where was the phone? The office. She backed away from the body.

At Sonnie's desk, she reached for the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

In the seconds she waited for an operator to pick up, shocky tremors rattled through her body. When she spoke, her voice quivered as she recited her name, the name of the club, and the word, "body," before doubling over with nausea.

-----------------------

What people are saying about High Notes Are Murder:

"Heroine Liz wants to sing and compose, but turns into an investigator when close friends are murdered and she receives messages which indicate she may be the next target. Can she uncover the killer before she follows in their footsteps? Tension and action mark this superbly crafted murder mystery."
   --Diane Donovan, The Midwest Book Review

"Barbara Reed's High Notes Are Murder features a heroine as smart and likable as any in crime fiction today. Singer Liz Hanlon's voice remains strong and pure throughout this refreshing debut novel."
   --Martin J. Smith, author of Time Release, Shadow Image, and Straw Men

"Barbara Reed delivers a double treat with High Notes Are Murder and its companion CD: a fine mystery and musical accompaniment to die for. Heroine Liz Hanlon is smart, big-hearted and talented-an up-and coming jazz singer, pianist and composer whose career looks bright until a scandal from the past threatens to destroy her and anyone else who stands too close. Reed provides a witty, fascinating insider's look at an LA music scene that is weirder and scarier than most fans will ever know.
   --Taylor Smith, author of The Innocents Club & Guilt By Silence

"High Notes Are Murder is an inspired murder mystery that exposes the tainted side of the music business on the way to solving who-done-it. This is a sound story that will keep you guessing to the end."
   --Chris Enss, author of Women of the Gold Country, Falcon Publishing

"Reed has employed a family tragedy like a wedge, using it to pry open the secret motives and murderous intentions of its members, and the powerful, deadly maneuvering of the music business. High Notes Are Murder is full of high stakes dealings. It opens a window into both the heart of a dreamer and the mind of a murderer."
   --Billie Raven, author A Most Personal Look , Markham Publishing

"High Notes Are Murder virtually brims with malicious intrigue and intricately-woven suspense."
   --Tedd Ross, Book Review Editor, Readersource.com