The Lonesome Road

Chapter One

On the other side of the country, an enthusiastic audience packed a concert hall in Newport, Rhode Island. Though the famous Newport Jazz Festival was some weeks away, the summer concert season had just started. The entire town was abuzz about Joanna West and Alexandra Austin performing together with their husbands, trombonist David Harris and legendary bandleader Francis Barton, on the same program.

Joanna and David were all but through their set. Joanna's eyes were closed in concentration as she reached for her final note in her lightly husky voice, striking it before turning it over again in improvisation. She was a figure in a music box, petite, with porcelain skin, bright blue eyes and light copper hair was either swept back into a girlish ponytail, or curled in ethereal ringlets, as it was this afternoon. David was equally striking, tall, dark-haired with a gorgeous smile that rivaled that of any movie heartthrob.

Alex, standing in the wings, was enrapt in their performance. It felt like only yesterday that she had first seen Joanna West sing, at the auditorium in Fort Collins, Colorado. Now Alex shared the stage with Joanna, her friend and mentor.

"Ready?" Francis Barton, fourteen years older than his twenty-six year-old wife, still embodied the essence of an athletic, brilliantly intelligent gentleman. He stood over six feet four inches, wearing a gray suit that accented his blue eyes and dark hair that showed ever so few strands of silver.

"As ever," Alex replied, slipping her hand into his. After Joanna and David left the stage, Alex and Francis entered. Francis sat down at the piano, bending his long legs in order to position his feet at the pedals. Alex, letting her eyes adjust to the spotlights and incessant camera flashbulbs, strode slowly toward the microphone. She was not music-box delicate like Joanna, but cut a striking figure at nearly six feet tall without heels, thick nearly-black hair that sparkled under the lights and searching turquoise eyes that many gentlemen had fallen into. Francis Barton struck the first chord, and Alex began her song on a mellow low note, sultry and clear as it grew.

After the encores, Joanna and David were waiting in the same place where Alex and Francis had stood. Joanna and Alex retired to the ladies' dressing room, anxious to change out of their concert dresses. The silence created as the audience filed out of the hall was jarred by the sudden ringing of a telephone.

"I'll get it," Margaret Maines, Joanna and Alex's manager, stood up and reached for the phone. "This is Margaret." She listened for the voice on the other end. "Kate? Is that you?"

A sudden hush fell over the room as Joanna and Alex strained to hear the other end of the conversation.

"Where are you?" Margaret's voice was a combination of compassion and alarm. Kate Russell, one of the first female jazz vocalists of her generation, had all but disappeared over the past five months. "Nevada. I'll be there as soon as I can." She replaced the receiver.

"What," Alex inquired, "was that all about? Is she all right?"

Margaret, a kindly middle-aged woman with hair pulled back in a graying topknot, nodded. "It seems like she is. She's in Mirage, Nevada."

"Nevada?" Joanna narrowed her eyes as she brushed her shimmering copper tresses. "I haven't heard of any good clubs in that direction, have you, Alex?" As long as Alex had known both Joanna and Kate, a distinct tension had existed between them. Nevertheless, to Alex, Kate was as much of a mentor and friend as Joanna.

"Nevada," Margaret said with the sternness that made her one of the most successful managers in a field dominated by men. "Let's only hope it's not too late to catch a flight from Providence yet today."

"I'm going with you," Alex stood up and grabbed her train case.

Margaret shook her head. "I'm not sure if that's a good idea."

Alex's disappointment mixed with concern as she observed Margaret's sudden change from jovial to tense. Something had to be terribly wrong.

* * *

Kate slumped against the wood-paneled wall after replacing the phone on its receiver, exhausted in every way. Her cool, nothing-can-touch-me demeanor had demanded that she conceal moments of weakness or vulnerability. At this moment, however, she was too tired and lonely to keep the facade going. She sat motionless on the cool tile floor, knees drawn up to her chest. A flood of images filled her mind. At times she wondered what she was to do while waiting for Margaret. Most of all, she wondered how an aspiring singer from Chicago ended up alone in Mirage, Nevada.

* * *