Redeemed On a Blue Note

By Roulon McClennon

A psychological suspense thriller about a Grammy Award winning jazz musician whose secret affair with his mistress results in his wife murdering her in cold blood but this is only the beginning... Now eleven years on, he find himself a new love interest hoping to move on with his, which is turbulent due to him bordering on dementia, but lurking in the shadows is another woman who's out for revenge on him whom blames him for the death of her cousin, his mistress.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483559995

Book preview

THING

ONE:

AXIS: BOLD AS VENGEANCE

Eleven years ago…

On the sixteenth floor of the Goldman Sachs® building in Manhattan, New York, a female employee carried a stack of files down a series of hallways until she walked past an office with a sign on the door that read Suzanne Hearns, Executive Vice President of Investment.

Meet my mistress, Suzanne Hearns, who hails from Baltimore, Maryland. The man upstairs sure did bless her with a physique and the glamour to go with it. Very few Black women have what Suzanne had that—bada-bing, bada-boom, bada-bang most definitely.

Suzanne graduated from Temple University earning top honors in her class majoring in business, the very thing that attracted the head executives at Goldman Sachs®, who recently received her promotion after working nine hard years to get it. She was busy at doing a load of paperwork seated at a desk in her office, which had plenty of views of the city skyline. The clock on the wall indicated: 3:30 p.m.

On the desk was a picture of her and a certain tall, handsome Black man with gray eyes. That’s me, Steven Chancellor, a Grammy Award® winning jazz musician who was currently involved in a three-year affair with Suzanne.

That picture was taken at a popular nightclub in New York. It was where we first met, looking quite like a couple.

Ironically, no one had any idea that we were a couple anyway. We’ve managed quite well to keep our relationship in the strictest of secrecy.

The phone ranged on her desk. Suzanne picked up the receiver. Suzanne Hearns, she said.

Hey, it’s me.

Steven, you’re headed home?

Yeah, I’m on the plane right now I can’t wait to see you there.

Suzanne kicked back in her chair turning to her profile towards the window crossing those long, smooth, gorgeous legs of hers.

You’ve been gone on tour for the last eight months. I can see why.

And now it’s over, thank goodness.

Why don’t you meet me at my place?

Tonight?

Why not?

You know—Glenda’s…

…She’s still going to see you when you get home, she interceded.

But there’s something else you need to know about.

What is it?

Steven—I’m kind of gettin’ tired of this.

You mean us?

I’m tired of sharing you with your wife.

Do we have to talk about this?

I don’t see why not?

Suzanne…

…You’re going to have to make a decision eventually, Steven?

Yeah, you might be right?

Don’t be late. Besides, I’m looking forward to giving you a homecoming you won’t forget.

How could I?

Bye.

Bye.

She hanged up with a gleeful look on her face.

An hour later…

Suzanne left the office with her suit jacket draped over her briefcase and her purse in the same hand headed home drawing the attention of a couple of male employees.

They both gazed down upon Suzanne’s cleavage, which stretched her white lace bra underneath her white cotton blouse, which could barely be seen along with her posterior that switched in a tight aqua blue pinstripe skirt with her five-foot-seven inch frame. Hell, I don’t blame those guys to say the least. I’m sure they would want a woman like that.

Suzanne walked out of the office building where she got inside a cab parked out front and drove off.

Later…

The cab arrived at Suzanne’s high-rise apartment on East 56th Street, the Upper Eastside, where Suzanne paid her fare and got out of the cab headed inside. The cab driver caught himself a glimpse of Suzanne’s posterior before he drove off in a state of euphoria, and I don’t blame him, neither.

At the entrance to her apartment, Suzanne entered her security code on the entry panel near the double glass doors, which unlocked and she walked inside.

Inside in the lobby, Suzanne went to her mailbox that was designated for her, which read S. Hearns, #707, where she opened it with her key and retrieved some mail. She glanced at a few letters before she closed the mailbox and walked towards the elevator around the corner in hallway where she pressed the button going up to her apartment.

The elevator indicator arrow lights up with the bell ringing on the seventh floor. The doors opened. Suzanne exited the elevator taking her keys out of her purse headed to her apartment, #707, at the end of the hallway.

She unlocked the door and walked inside the living room that’s nothing less than contemporary with a view of the city that’s very spacious with a large dining room that was adjacent to it. The best New York had to offer.

She went into the master bedroom where she puts her mail, purse, suit jacket and briefcase on the bed, then went into the bathroom.

She turned on the water in the shower stall and then grabbed a towel off a rack and her robe hanging on a hook behind the door and went back into the master bedroom.

Suzanne undressed taking off her pumps, skirt, blouse and stockings. Then she took off her lace bra revealing her almost flawless triple D-cup breast with nipples the size of milk duds that I still marvel at along with her thong panties.

Half hour later…

In the bathroom, steam from the shower stall billowed upward with condensation build up on the glass enclosure, which obscured Suzanne’s naked body.

Inside the shower stall, however, Suzanne, who’s all lathered up with soap and her hair wrapped up in the towel, seemed to be in a sexually aroused state of mind rubbing her hands all her sensitive areas soothing to the warmth of the steam…

The sheer curtains in the master bedroom at Suzanne’s apartment are closed, but the moonlight from outside beams lowly through, but lit aroma candle encased in glass provide a sufficient portion of light.

The sound of loud panting and moaning along with flesh clacking filled the vacuum.

On the bed, Suzanne’s head was face down on a pillow with her hand clutched to the bed cover. Her naked body jolted hard in a rocking motion with her smooth round buttocks quivering.

There I was, naked on the bed, gritting my teeth with a firm grasp of Suzanne’s hips pounding the hell out of her doggy style in a strong caveating motion. Sweat beaded from our bodies glistening in the candle light in an intense heat of passion that build to a crescendo until—Suzanne! I wailed, releasing my DNA from my massive persuader I’m equipped with—wearing a raincoat, of course. Suzanne’s body continued to jolt bringing a joyous smile to her face.

Suzanne opened her eyes with that same joyous smile.

Finally, she stood underneath the showerhead and drenched her body.

The sunset turned the sky and clouds orange over New York giving way to the night…

Suzanne lit the last of the aroma candles encased in glass on both sides of the bed on the lamp tables, which was ground zero for another impending interlude between she and I with her makeup done and her hair teased in a sensuous roman goddess style with a couple of curl strands dangling down the side of her face, very seductive.

She walked into view of a full-length mirror in the corner dressed in a short lavender with white pinstripe kimono robe that exposed her long gorgeous legs and arctic white, ankle strap platform pumps—awesome.

She walked out of the master bedroom turning off the lights leaving only the burning aroma candles that gave off an atmosphere of romance.

Suzanne turned on the CD player of her stereo system on a large metal and oak shelf cabinet where legendary jazz pianist Herbie Hancock’s classic song, which also happens to be one of my favorites, Butterfly, played lowly in the living room in it’s mellow rhythmic tone.

She grabbed a bottle of champagne, already opened, from an ice bucket on the table in front of the couch and poured herself a glass with a strawberry dipped inside.

Suzanne relaxed on the couch stroking her hand down the smooth skin of her leg crossed waiting for me.

Half hour later…

A red 2002 Ferrari® Enzo® arrived parking across the street from Suzanne’s apartment coming to an idle, then the headlights and engine shut off.

An Unknown Woman dressed in a long white trench coat, turtleneck, straight leg slacks and heels got out and headed to the entrance ever so casually as if she lived there with her long dark flowing hair cropped over her trench coat blowing slightly in the wind, which nothing more than a mild gust.

Her strut was no mistakenly that of a woman, svelte yet curvaceous, even with that long the trench coat on, which covered most of her body. And the sound of her heels that pelted the ground also distinguished her presence.

But there was something about this Unknown Woman just didn’t jive upon her arrival at the front entrance of Suzanne’s apartment when she took out a small device from the pocket of her trench coat—an emergency glass breaker.

She put it up to one of the double glass doors and, just by simply pressing a button, shattered it into pieces that crumbled down to the floor. She walked through the shattered door and made her way to the mailboxes in the lobby.

The Unknown Woman raised her hand and pointed her finger towards the mailboxes to find a specific mailbox. She kept going until she stopped at a particular mailbox—S. Hearns, #707.

An elevator floor indicator arrow lights up on the seventh floor, and the Unknown Woman exited the elevator and walked into the hallway. She looked one direction and then in the other as the sound of elevator doors closed behind her.

The Unknown Woman made the long trek to the end of the hallway to Suzanne’s apartment in an authoritative manner as if she was the owner of the building herself, not withstanding, coming to do some serious business.

Her vision was focused straight ahead like she had that tunnel vision eyesight, almost like The Terminator® on a programmed mission to kill its intended target.

The doorbell ringing energized Suzanne at the moment she had waited for. She laid her glass of champagne down on the table and went to the door, walking to it like a runway model at a fashion show pursing those ruby red lips.

Suzanne reached up and opened her short kimono robe dropping it down off of her shoulders revealing her huge bare breast that swayed from side to side wearing a matching high cut clip-on thong underneath.

She looked through the peephole of the door only to see no one there, which puzzled her somewhat at first, but then Suzanne broke a smile thinking that it was me playing a joke on her or something putting her robe back on.

Suzanne opened the front door and, without warning, a gunshot ranged out with a bullet pelting flesh and blood out of Suzanne’s body that knocked her backward down to the floor with such inertia.

The Unknown Woman’s shadow crept inside slowly with the sound of her heels filling the void. Her shadow hovered over Suzanne who’s choking on her own blood like a wounded prey, helpless and doomed.

Suzanne’s eyes widened as she looked up at the Unknown Woman terrified.

It turned to be Glenda, my wife who’s been married to me for the last seven years, looking down at Suzanne whom was bleeding to death with a cold-blooded expression on her face—unemotional. She aimed her sidearm and fired the fatal round into Suzanne’s head turning the floor into a pool of blood and carnage.

TWO:

THE AFTERMATH MAN

Present day…

Boy—that sunny sky was beaming down here in Stroudburg, Pennsylvania, a small suburban town sixty-eight miles northwest of Philadelphia, which was where I lived.

For the average working middle class citizen, many would go through a long series of dress rehearsals just to really imagine what their lives could be like in this Shangri-La suburban town at the base of a plush green hillside. My luxurious limestone mansion is situated practically all by itself along Laurel Lake Drive.

I was getting in some practice on my Gibson® Howard Roberts Fusion guitar hooked up to a 2x12, Roland® JC-120 amplifier inside the spruce wood decor recording studio of my home complete with my keyboards, a ten piece drum set and various guitar models hung on racks.

I was born and raised in Philadelphia by my mother, Cree, who was part Native American Indian and White. She came to Philadelphia back in the mid 1960s to work as a registered nurse from Oklahoma.

My father, Henry Chancellor, was a Black automobile mechanic who left my mother when she was eight months pregnant with me—that sorry ass motherfucker.

Then, all of sudden, I was struck by something like my memory was jarred loose.

Later…

In my office study full of books, a few priceless art paintings and a huge granite mantle fireplace, I stared at the screen of my Apple® iMac desktop computer looking slack jawed seated at my desk.

On the computer screen, the heading on the front of the Philadelphia Inquirer™ read MUSICIAN’S WIFE ARRESTED FOR MURDER with a picture of Glenda below it.

Glenda was somebody no one would dare suspect, such as this, for being a murderer, not even me. I never saw it coming.

She was educated earning a bachelors degree in sports medicine at Cheney State University and could handle any sports car that would make famed formula one race car driver Louis Hamilton look like a sideshow phony, damn!

Seeing a picture of her ponders a lingering question in my mind, How could someone like this commit such a heinous crime? To me, knowing what I’ve done, how or why really didn’t seem to matter.

One would conclude that I enjoyed the lap of luxury of being in the company of two gorgeous and very well educated women, two women that drawn my interest.

I just couldn’t resist the enormous temptation for Suzanne the most.

I gazed at Suzanne’s photograph juxtapose next to Glenda’s on the front page of the newspaper that struck a blow to my heart.

If only I could just turn back the hands of time, I wouldn’t have this war raging in my mind…

I slowly emerged from the Superior Courthouse in New York looking glum with hordes of news reporters who try to get in question after question and paparazzi try to get a shot of me. Bystanders were gathered behind them.

My attorney, Thomas Miranda, a partial bald and gray beard Latino man who was one of the partners of the law firm, Miranda, Hiller and Phelps in Los Angeles, accompanied me.

Light bulbs started flashing away from a paparazzo’s camera nearly blind me like I was some spectacle of their own entertainment.

Thomas and I walked up to a make shift podium filled with dozens of microphones at the top of the stairs of the Courthouse. Thomas stood at the podium first. Good afternoon. My name’s Thomas Miranda, I’m Mr. Chancellor’s attorney. At the present time, Mr. Chancellor will be making a brief statement here and only a brief statement.

News reporters try to get in a word, but he gestured them off as they crowd around the make shift podium.<

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. We will not answer any questions at all, people. My client will make a brief statement and that’s it, okay?

Thomas stood off to the side and allowed me to stand behind the podium. I took my time to gather my thoughts. First, I like to say that I’m sorry for this ordeal as I said before the trial. I wish things didn’t end in this way. And although my wife was found guilty of murder in this case, I’m just as guilty for engaging in an extra-marital affair that resulted in an innocent woman being murdered.

I calmed my nerves that were so tense I couldn’t recite the pledge of allegiance. I like to say to the Hearns Family that I’m sorry I caused you so much pain in the loss of their daughter, Suzanne Hearns… and I hope someday in the future I can earn your forgiveness?

I looked around at the reporters, paparazzi and other bystanders who keen in on every last word I made.

"Thank you.

"I walked away from the podium at the same time news reporters hurled their questions at me again. Thomas ushered me down the stairs toward an awaiting Lincoln® stretch limousine parked with the help of a few sheriff bailiffs that made a pathway for us to it.

I was in suspended animation devoid of any sense inundated by the media that encircled me.

Rufus, a heavyset man with a bushy mustache who was my driver, opened the rear passenger door for us where we got inside.

Rufus quickly closed the door behind us and went to get in on the driver’s side. The news reporters and paparazzi lurked closer inside the limousine still asking questions and taking pictures of me.

I turned off the computer angrily and rubbed my hand down my face thinking about what should have been between us when we were married.

We were quite a couple among our family and friends, so it appeared. Somehow, I veered away from the script and yielded to my shortcomings.

My portable phone ranged. Hello? I said, picking up the receiver.

Ay, Steven?

Bobby, what’s going on, man?

Ay! Me, Gil, Memo and the girls are going to the basketball game tonight. You want to tag along?

I scratched my forehead contemplating for a second.

Uh—yeah, yeah, what time you want me to be there?

Six o’clock. We’ll meet you at the restaurant in the VIP lounge.

All right, I’ll see yawl there.

All right, late, hanging up the phone.

I went over to the window to clear my mind as best as I could, but I knew it wouldn’t cure me of the past, not now, not ever.

Maybe this was a curse from God letting me know that I seriously messed up? He might as well send me to hell instead. At least I’ll be better off suffering for real down there. Who said you had to wait to go to hell to get your punishment? Somebody was drinking a pitcher of Kool-Aid® when they said that.

I should of beaten Glenda to Suzanne’s apartment that night and then it would have been me who would of wound up dead instead of her. Just to see Suzanne shot up like that was gut wrenching when they showed her remains in court during Glenda’s trial. Really, she didn’t have to go to that extreme. But what I’ve found strange two years after she was convicted of murder, her life, too, came to a tragic end like Suzanne by getting stabbed to death in prison.

I’ve managed to keep my career above water, but this thing is like a thorn in my side that I couldn’t pull out if I tried. One could say that it was fool’s errand to think matters like this would stay in the shadows.

Like that old saying, You make your bed you’re going to sleep in it.

THREE:

REFLECTIONS OF GLENDA

That night…

It was in the heart of the rush hour traffic that’s heavy on the northbound lanes and somewhat heavy on the southbound lanes of the Delaware Expressway on the I-95 along the waterfront area of the Delaware River where.

I was driving amongst the traffic on the southbound lane in my black Octacycle® Triad, one of nine vehicles I currently own. It’s a motorcycle that looks like an exotic sports car in the back, but with only a single wheel in the front just like a trike where the entire body tilts side to side.

This particular motorcycle is powered by hydroelectric technology, which can run for thirty-three hours on a single charge. It also had speakers molded into the body that can