The Virtuosic Spy 01 - Deceptive Cadence (45 page)

In particular, I want to thank those who agreed to serve as Patrons for this publishing project. I am so grateful to each of you, and I dearly hope the result honors your support. In other words, I hope you like it!

Jonathan Barth & Stan Dudek
 

Margaret Candelori

Peggy & Jim Bouffard
 

William Bouffard
 

Patty Carbee

Hon. Nils Daulaire
 

Reenal Doshi

Holly Gathright & Jim Brown
 

Claire Guare

Dick & Meghan Guare
 

Eleanor & Tom Guare
 

Lynn & Paul Guare

Sadhana & Rick Hall
 

The Iantosca Family
 

The Krol Family

The MacArthur Family
 

Brenda McDermott
 

Joanne Needham & Andy Johnson

Michael & Cindy Puleo
 

Ann Louise Santos

Ralf & Mari Schaarschmidt
 

Jim Wiggins

Susan Z. Ritz

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Books 2 and 3 in

The Virtuosic Spy Series

About Kathryn Guare

Thank you so much for letting me share the beginning of Conor McBride’s adventures with you. I hope that by now you are as hooked on him as I am! Let’s see what kind of trouble we can cook up for him next.

Many of the settings described in
Deceptive Cadence
are from my own experiences traveling in both Ireland and India, two countries that captured my heart and are always beckoning me to return. I am a Vermont-based writer who has traveled extensively but I always return to the small town where I grew up. I have a passion for music (from Classical to Pop, and everything in between) and all things Irish, and I love exploring ethnic foods and diverse cultures. I also love connecting with readers to share experiences and new discoveries. I hope you’ll connect with me to share yours as well.

www.kathrynguare.com

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www.facebook.com/KathrynGuare

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If you enjoyed
Deceptive Cadence
, I hope you’ll help spread the word by posting a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or whatever other forums you think appropriate. Only a few lines are needed, it helps enormously, and I’d be very grateful.

And now, I hope you’ll take another minute to “swipe” one more time for a sneak peek at Book 2 in The Virtuosic Spy Series…..

Book 2 Excerpt copy

Hartsboro Bend, Vermont

F
ROM
THE
SOUTH
-
FACING
WINDOW
OF
HER
ATTIC
STUDIO
, Kate Fitzpatrick surveyed a landscape that usually enchanted her and blew out a sigh. Yesterday, the first grass of spring had uncurled to stretch over the long rolling meadow below her house, but now only twenty-four hours later, the new blades lay stunned, smothered under a snowfall coating them like a layer of rock salt. She sensed their shock and disappointment as keenly as her own.

In the distance, the bowl-shaped surface of Lake Rembrandt was colorless, its thinning crust of blue ice again obscured by a winter that had long ago outworn its welcome.

Kate tossed her brush into a canning jar where it clattered against the others. A full complement of paint-free artist brushes. Stopping herself from sighing again, she gathered up the dark copper hair that fell around her face and let it drop behind her shoulders. A shadow caught the corner of her eye and she turned to the front window, which faced a dirt road that was falling short of even the lowest expectations for its Class 3 status. Already pot-holed by the sweep of winter plows, the road had thawed, rutted into impressively deep furrows ... and then had frozen again.

Jared Percy was on its opposite side, head down and slump- shouldered, lumbering up the steep driveway toward the barn. After a full day’s work on his own property the young farmer was on his way to milk her sixteen cows.

“I should go help him.” Kate noted a habitual surge of guilt and indecision as soon as the words left her mouth. She tracked his weary progress to the top of the hill before turning back to her easel, but the room had grown cold and the blank canvas confronted her like an accusation. Surrendering, she crossed the floor at a trot, pulled the door shut on the ascetic chill of the artist’s garret, and fled down to the more hospitable domain of the innkeeper.

The temperature rose as she descended to the first floor but Kate’s mood remained low. The Rembrandt Inn was just starting the second month of its annual two-month closure, and an inn on hiatus projected a forlorn emptiness that didn’t exist in one simply waiting for its next guests. She went looking for comfort in the kitchen and found while she’d been moping, her chef— with sleeves rolled up under a blue tartan jumper—had been making more productive use of the day.

Abigail Perini had transferred the entire contents of the spice cupboard to the stainless steel prep counter and was scouring the shelves as though they’d never been washed before. She turned at Kate’s entrance, her plump face warm and red, and pushed aside the graying brown hair escaping from an improvised bun.

“You’re in a mood,” she observed and went back to her shelves, transparently confident in her analysis. “Have you been painting?”

“By which you mean ‘not’ painting. No, I didn’t really try today. It isn’t that. It’s the weather.”

Her chef responded with a guttural croak that conveyed a wealth of meaning, and Kate glared at her broad sturdy back. “A ‘harrumph?’ Why a ‘harrumph?’ You don’t think I can be in an ugly mood about the weather?”

Abigail glanced back, offering a peacemaking smile. “Ugly moods are few and far between where you’re concerned, sweetie. I’d say you’re entitled to one. Anyway, cheer up. Supposed to hit sixty tomorrow and then rain like hell later this week. Have you got a check ready for Jared? I just saw him on his way to the barn.”

“I saw him, too. Maybe I should take over again for a few weeks.”

“Take over the milking?” Abigail dropped the sponge on the shelf and turned, hands on hips. “You tend not to enjoy that Kate, and the cows know as much. Makes them nervous, and as I’m sure you recall—”

“Makes them want
 
to
 
kick
 
me.
 
Yes,
 
I
 
remember.”
 
Kate absently stroked her left forearm, fractured by one such kick six months earlier. “I feel guilty for not helping more. I could give Jared a break, at least. He’d probably appreciate some time off.” “I think what he appreciates is the extra money, and I think he likes helping you.”

Kate slid on to a kitchen stool. “Sure. The lonely widow Fitzpatrick and her crazy hillside dairy farm. Everyone wants to help. It’s like a Disney film.”

“Lord, you are in a mood.” Abigail rolled her eyes. “When is the Irish fellow going to turn up, anyway? He’s supposed to be a farmer. Couldn’t he—” She paused as Kate sprang up, grabbing the stool before it toppled to the floor. “What the hell’s the matter now?” “I’d forgotten about him, and I haven’t looked at my email for days. What if I was supposed to pick him up somewhere?”

Hurrying to her office behind the registration desk, Kate sat at the computer and scanned her messages. Nothing. She sank against the chair, relief turning to annoyance. When was the Irish fellow going to turn up? It was a bit rude to keep her guessing. If he was coming at all.

The request had been odd enough, but the source of it—her late husband’s Irish cousin—had been the greater surprise. Her attitude about Phillip Ryan had always remained ambivalent. God knows she could never repay what he’d done for her, but gratitude had not come quickly or easily, and even now it was layered with a vague hesitation.

Her husband had died. A horrible accident and not Phillip’s fault, but in her grief it had been easy to blame him, to hold him responsible for the worst day of her life. Upon receiving the first of his annual Christmas cards five years ago she’d thrown the envelope away unopened, unable to separate the man from the memories he evoked.

She’d come a long way since then. Now, she could prop his ubiquitous seasonal greeting on the mantelpiece without a second thought and send back one of her own, and remember him with a bittersweet gratitude. Still, when his name had appeared in her inbox, a twinge of reluctance made her hesitate before reading the message.

Kate began thumbing up the piles of clutter on her desk like a botanist searching under rocks, and eventually found the printed copy of Phillip’s note and their follow-up communications. He’d seemed to anticipate her guarded reaction in his very first line:

Dear Kate,

I hope you’re well. No doubt it strikes as something odd to hear from me outside of
 
the Christmas season. The fact is I’m writing about a lodger I’d like to send your way. He’ll be a paying one of course, but might be looking for an extended stay, if you allow such a thing.

His name is Conor McBride, and I’ve been working as his farm manager for a good few years. For various reasons—his mother’s recent death and some personal issues—he’s sold his land and is leaving Ireland for America. In your last holiday card (thanks for that, by the way), you mentioned no end of
 
trouble keeping managers engaged at your place. Conor’s experience might be useful to you there. He’s a good farmer, though he’s maybe not fit for work straight away. He was nearly killed with pneumonia a month ago and he’s still a bit shook. A dose of your mountain air would set him right, I’m thinking.

Kate, please will you let me know as soon as you can if you’ve the space, and the inclination, to board him for a while.

Kind Regards,
 

Phillip

Kate’s eyes skimmed over her acceptance and request for arrival details, and Phillip’s apologetic reply.

Sorry not to be able to give more exact information. He says he’ll arrive in about a week.

That had been a week ago. Kate was still frowning impatiently at the print-out when she heard a heavy footstep on the porch, and then the doorbell.

“Come in out of the cold, Jared.” She rooted around the clutter in a fresh search, this time for the check she’d written earlier. The front door opened a crack.

“Afternoon.” Jared’s low voice came through the opening. The lazy cadence of his Vermont drawl always made him sound like he was just up from a nap, but he was one of the hardest working young men she knew. “I’m okay out here, Kate. I’m pretty muddy and it ain’t that cold, so—.”