Pre-Release Excerpt from Son of Thunder…
[Note from Steve: Thanks to Penmore Press, this year you will be treated to another adventure involving those imperfect clones of Agatha Christie’s characters Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot, that is, Esther Brookstone, now ex-Scotland Yard Inspector from the Art and Antiques Division, and Bastiann van Coevorden, an Interpol agent and Esther’s paramour and wannabe protector. They’re 21st century versions of the famous sleuths, of course. In this new novel, they will meet the artist Sandro Botticelli and the disciple St. John the Divine…and there’s no time travel. Without further ado, here’s an excerpt from the mystery/thriller Son of Thunder.]
Esther was a seasoned traveler, but she missed her plane.
That afternoon, when she called the lift to take her last little bit of garbage downstairs to the bin in her building’s garage, something she always did before a trip, she took only a few steps when a man popped out from behind a support column, grabbed her, and put a handkerchief over her mouth.
What she inhaled took the force from her kick to his groin….
“You’re no more a countess than I am,” said the blurred face belonging to a complete stranger when she awoke. “You’re a meddling old hag.”
She said nothing. She was waiting for her head to clear before she tried to assess her situation. Her captor patted her on the cheek.
“Your husband wasn’t even a count under modern Italian law. Alberto Sartini was only a greedy Swiss banker.”
Italian, she thought. And I’ll castrate you for your insults!
“But to the business at hand. I have someone on Moretti’s house staff. That person informed me two objets d’art were found in an old armoire that used to belong to a priest, a Botticelli painting and a parchment, to be precise.” He laughed. “At first I was only interested in the armoire as a family heirloom. When Moretti’s slut won that bid, I lost interest until I heard about what was in the armoire.” He paced the floor, his hands behind his back. What an intense fellow! “I’m not interested in the painting, whether it’s an authentic Botticelli or not. Stolen art is difficult to handle unless you sell it cents on the euro to someone in the black market. But the document intrigues me. Does it prove my ancestor made a long journey with Sandro Botticelli?”
Esther was confused. First, this man was an obvious amateur. Second, had the priest who owned the armoire, painting, and parchment dallied in the pastime of many Renaissance priests who sired bastard children? Third, why should anyone care about their ancestor taking a trip with the famous painter?
The conversation was becoming strange. No, there isn’t any conversation! She hadn’t said anything yet!
“Sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”
“You may call me Bruno. My full name is Bruno Toscano.”
Her head now clear, Esther studied his features. He had a buzz haircut that gave the impression of baldness compared to the bushy eyebrows that hovered like giant caterpillars above bottle-glass lenses with wire frames. Otherwise, he was a plain man who wore inexpensive and ill-fitting clothes. He was shorter than she was. Maybe I aimed my kick too high?
He continued his pacing and muttering to himself as if his ego and id were embroiled in a serious discussion, at times seeming to put himself into a trance. She remembered how the glasses had magnified the malevolence in the cold, blue eyes.
“Very well, Bruno, untie me and I’ll try to answer your questions.”
He smiled. Some dental work needed. Everything about him was wrinkled—his shirt, his suit, and his tie that was too long. She couldn’t tilt her head down far enough to see his shoes. She supposed they were old and worn too.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’re an old hag, but you’re not a fragile old hag. I know about some of your exploits. I don’t trust you, you see. Not at all. Not at all.”
“The parchment describes a trip to Ephesus and vicinity. It’s almost like a travel log because it’s a word-map to St. John’s burial place.”
“St. John the Divine? Who wrote that document? Does the writer mention a Bishop Leonardo?”
“No mention of anyone, of him or Sandro Botticelli. Is this bishop some relative of yours?”
“Not a direct relative. We’re descendants of Bishop Leonardo’s brother.” The man thought a moment. Esther took the opportunity to test her constraints. Loose, but not loose enough. He stopped pacing and leaned over her. “I’ve now decided a saint’s bones would be more valuable than an armoire. If I can’t prove my ancestor traveled with Botticelli to search for the bones, finding them and selling them would be a suitable alternative to the armoire and painting.”
“Where’d you hear this story about your ancestor traveling with Botticelli? The painter rarely left the street where he lived in Florence. He might have been in Pisa for a time, and painted some early frescoes in the new Sistine Chapel, but that’s all history knows about any of his travels.”
“My ancestor ran the Ognissanti Church, Botticelli’s parish church, for your information. That armoire was his and it’s where the armoire was stored. Let this Moretti have the armoire and painting, although they’re rightfully mine. The parchment too. I’m more interested in becoming famous by finding the saint’s bones.”
“You’re crazy! They’d only be bones like any you can find in a grave in an old English churchyard. You might as well dig up some and call them St. John’s.”
“Maybe there are religious relics with the bones? Maybe even the Holy Grail! What would that be worth? Can you imagine?”
Esther thought of the movie with Harrison Ford and Sean Connery where Indy and his father searched for the Holy Grail. At least this fellow didn’t have any superstitions about the Grail’s power. He must see it only as a moneymaker if he could find a suitable and discreet buyer. She digested that. “So your family thinks your relative took a trip with the painter to the Middle East?”
“I have no family anymore, just that family legend. Maybe Bishop Leonardo wanted to find the saint’s bones too! The legend probably originated that way.”
Talk about jumping to conclusions! She knew she was dealing with a deranged mind.
“And you think he wrapped up the bones he found and took them back to Florence?”
“The legend’s only about the trip. I’m thinking that was the only reason for them to make the trip. It would have been a long one in those days—half the Mediterranean!”
At least he knows a bit of geography! “So are you going to Ephesus or returning to Florence to search for the bones?”
“I hadn’t planned that far. What do you suggest?”
Not too bright, this Bruno. She felt a bit sorry for him. “I’m not in a position to offer you advice, so maybe you should read what’s on the parchment. I can give you that.” But not the translation! A lie by omission. “I’m not interested in the saint’s bones.”
Another little lie, but mostly truth. She was more interested in proving the parchment was an elaborate hoax. But she could also be interested if there were some truth to the man’s story. Maybe Botticelli had wanted to go to Ephesus, but she couldn’t believe he ever made the trip. If he did, that would be something new in art history!
Her captor considered the offer. “OK. I will let you go if you give me the text from the parchment.”
I hope you know Latin! She nodded. “A file of photographs is on my mobile. If you have access to a computer, I can download it to your hard drive.”
***
Comments are welcome.
Rembrandt’s Angel. Although my new novel Son of Thunder can be read independently, you might want to check out the first book while you wait for publication of the sequel…if you haven’t already. Esther becomes obsessed with recovering a Rembrandt stolen by the Nazis during World War Two for Hitler’s museum. Bastiann tries to control and protect her, but it all blows up as they discover a major conspiracy the sale of such paintings helps finance. Available in ebook format on Amazon and Smashwords and all the latter’s affiliated retailers (iBooks, B&N, Kobo, etc) as well as print format on Amazon or at your local bookstore (if they don’t have it, ask then to order it).
Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
