Dangerous Inspiration

By Greg Stone

Synesthesia alters detective-turned-novelist Ronan Mezini’s perceptions. But can it help him find the killer?

Detective-turned-novelist Ronan Mezini has skewed perceptions because of a condition called synesthesia, which for him transforms sounds into colors. These visions give him unusual insights that help him solve the case. So when a collection of eccentric – and possibly violent — creative people come together at an elite artists' colony in rural Vermont, murders occur in rapid succession and suspicion falls on everyone as Mezini unearths the founding family's secrets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paper Angel Press
• Release date: Jan 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781959804093

Greg Stone

Greg Stone, with his beloved wife, Jodi, of over 31 years, lives near Branson, Missouri, on the land he grew up on. He and Jodi have two grown sons, Casey with his wife Abigail, and son Drew and wife Faith and their son Jack. Greg is the associate regional director for Young Life, helping oversee ministries in the Gateway Region, which includes most of Missouri. In his spare time Greg enjoys reading, writing, watching St. Louis Cardinals baseball and Kansas City Chiefs football, and spending time with his wife, family, and friends.

Book preview

"Dangerous Inspiration, Greg Stone’s first novel, is a brilliantly written story that is captivating and had me reading it from start to finish without stopping. It has many intriguing twists and turns, the prose is deft and elegant, and the end sublimely surprising."

Sanjiv Chopra, MD

Professor, Harvard Medical School

co-author, The Two Most Important Days

"Imagine a bunch of strangers, a secret which binds them, then follow the colours of perception and you’ll have the sort of Dangerous Inspiration Agatha Christie would have created."

Andrea Purgatori

journalist and author of Four Little Oysters

"Dangerous Inspiration is a ‘whodunit’ that draws its roots from a different era, but takes place firmly in today's world. In fact, it's a lot like its wry and amusing protagonist. This book is smart, but not pedantic. It is observant, but it doesn't drown you in details. And it works just as well with a beer as it does with a nice cup of tea. But don't think that means that you'll be putting it down."

Steve Schlozman, MD

author of The Zombie Autopsies

Gripping from the outset … a good old whodunnit!

Jenna Ward

Professor at Coventry University

and Director of the Art of Management & Organization

Ronan Mezini is a hard-boiled ex-detective who likes philosophy, Shakespeare, good red wine and complicated women. He's trying to write a book at an artist's retreat in Vermont but gets caught up in a series of murders committed during a wild storm. Mezini likes to talk to himself, and his often hilarious soliloquies keep this whodunit moving from beginning to end.

F. James Pensiero, Deputy Managing Editor (Retired), The Wall Street Journal

"Avid mystery buffs (like myself) will instantly recognize the familiar (and beloved) tropes of Dangerous Inspiration, a classic homage to Christie and her ilk: a group of strangers summoned to an isolated location, their psychological unveiling during the ensuing mayhem, and the final denouement which reveals all. Within this construct, and with many winks to it throughout, Greg Stone has created a memorable group of quirky characters. Events quickly unfold in this action packed story with twists and turns leading to an unexpected resolution. I thoroughly enjoyed it!"

Ina Saltz

Professor Emeritus, The City College of New York

Author and Content Creator, LinkedIn Learning

Dangerous Inspiration

A Ronan Mezini Mystery

Greg Stone

Copyright © 2023 by Greg Stone

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for the purpose of review and/or reference, without explicit permission in writing from the publisher.

Cover design copyright © 2023 by J.B. Wheatley

Published by Paper Angel Press

paperangelpress.com

978-1-959804-09-3 (EPUB)

First Edition

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Mary, Lauren, and Jack

Acknowledgments

First, i want to thank Managing Editor Steven Radecki and Editor-in-Chief Laureen Hudson from Paper Angel Press for taking a chance on this first-time novelist. Steven is supportive and flexible beyond words and Laureen is a marvelous and inspired editor. It has been a complete pleasure to work with them.

I can say without exaggeration that this book would not exist without the countless inputs from my oldest pal, Jack Stilwell, a retired CFO with the mind of a literary critic. I called him repeatedly, sometimes several times a day, asking questions about everything from minute details of the plot to the overall structure. He’d always give me an honest and insightful answer. I hope I wasn’t too annoying!

I also extend special appreciation to Elisabetta di Cagno for advice, editing, and above all encouragement.

I am grateful for the insights gained from many readers. In no particular order, I thank my son Jack, Hillary Greene, Dennis Yao (who suggested that Mezini’s synesthesia could be a low-level superpower), Ron Tunkel (a retired federal agent who served as a criminal profiler for the FBI and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms & Explosives — whom I met through the good graces of my cousin Courtney Foster), Phil Landa (a superb screenwriter), Frank Flaherty (another excellent writer), Leslie Sciandra, Elizabeth Saltonstall, and Alisa Todreas (all three of whom read numerous drafts of different books), Greg Bauer and Ian Todreas (for detailed and lovingly pointed criticism), Paul Samuels, Linda Snyder, Edmundo Vasquez, Tami Miller, James Palermo (for technical advice), Andrew Ruotolo, Rusty Stieff, Tony Castro (my brother-in-law and a Homicide Counsel in the Bronx District Attorney’s office), and Jan Saragoni (who helped with publicity) along with her savvy right-hand Carol Beggy.

I also thank Joel Shames, my first-rate lawyer in Boston, and Wayne Kabak, an agent who represented me when I was a TV reporter. Kudos to Mark Ostow, an unparalleled photographer, for my new headshot. Then we come to Jacob and Cailin Jans and Emily Harstone (from Authors Publish Magazine) who were generous with practical advice about the publishing landscape. For overall friendship and encouragement, I thank Julie Battilana, Romain Aubanel, Tiziana Casciaro, and Lawrence Hopkins (who owns the famous Daedalus Restaurant in Harvard Square).

A special homage to John Strahinich, il miglior fabbro, as the poet said. John has always been my corner man.

Finally, I send all my love to my wife Mary, my daughter Lauren, and my son Jack, whose inspiration is anything but dangerous. This book is dedicated to all of you. Now you see the results of the countless hours I spent on the third floor.

1

Sunday – 4:00 P.M.

This story began when I, Ronan Mezini, was accepted at an elite artists’ colony called Interlude. I claim no academic credentials. In fact, I never attended college. Like Lincoln, I just read. As my grandfather used to say, all you need to educate yourself is a library card. I have read more literature, philosophy, and history than most PhDs. If I sometimes talk about books or art, I’m not showing off. That’s just how I think. Though I grew up in North Cambridge in Massachusetts — the non-Harvard part of the city — I can hold my own with university eggheads any day.

My mom was Irish and my dad Albanian-Italian. I suppose that makes me a Celtic-Eastern European-Mediterranean mutt. I’m a former homicide detective — turned private eye — and a would-be novelist. I’m 36 and I stand about 6’2", on a good day. I’m burly though I can move like a gazelle, if only for short bursts.

My hair is curly and mostly dark brown, with flecks of gray, and auburn highlights if the sun catches me at a certain angle. I have a large head atop a thick neck. Most of my height is in my torso as my legs are short for a person of my dimensions. I often wrinkle my bushy eyebrows when I’m thinking and people sometimes mistake that expression for anger.

Another key fact about me: I am a synesthete, which means that one sense stimulates another in unusual ways. For instance, I often perceive sounds as colors or images as sounds. I suppose my senses just work overtime, as the song goes. Generally, when I hear people speak, their voices fly from their mouths in multi-colored emanations that often give me insight into their personalities. Some might think I’m crazy, but I swear I’m saner than thou. Besides, I’m in good company with synesthesia. Supposedly Liszt, Kandinsky, Van Gogh, and Duke Ellington were in the club. I explain it this way: my senses commingle because of some sort of cross-wiring. Baudelaire talked about this in his poem Correspondences, where he said that perfumes, colors and sounds answer one another. He also wrote that some fragrances are as sweet as oboes or green like prairies. He even claimed that the visible universe is only a storehouse of images and signs that the imagination must digest and transform. That all makes sense to me.

Then we have Rimbaud, who famously assigned color values to all the vowels: Black for A, white for E, red for I, green for U, and blue for O. When in doubt, read the French. Their writers seem to think that it’s not enough to just create. They build their works atop foundations of philosophical principles. But we digress.

You’ll hear more about this as we get better acquainted.

The events I’m about to describe took place in October in a part of Vermont called the Northeast Kingdom, as picturesque as it is remote. Just 65,000 people share 2,000 square miles with countless moose, black bears, deer, bobcats, flying squirrels, loons, and wild turkeys. The Kingdom is a popular tourist destination, especially in the fall. The leaf-peepers come from all over to see nature’s palette of scarlet, orange, and yellow foliage on the maples, birches, and oaks. The visitors are obsessed with the timing of the peak — the weekend when the colors flame to maximum intensity — which varies from year to year depending on the weather. I cannot understand why autumn leaves are such a tourist attraction. Couldn’t the visitors just look at YouTube videos instead, on their 4K monitors?

Let’s get back to the story. I’ll do my best to relate the events as they unfolded. Interlude offered to send a limo to pick me up at home in Cambridge, Massachusetts, but I preferred to take my own chariot, my little Subaru Forester. I like long drives for the rare opportunity to think without interruptions. Not to mention that my spirits rise along with the increasing elevations in Vermont.

Unlike the arrogant, jagged peaks that thrust toward the skies in the Rockies or the Alps, Vermont’s mountains have rounded tops that make them seem more like humble, friendly hills that have been smooth and tender witnesses to countless dreams, hopes, and thwarted ambitions over the millennia. They gently endure, perhaps even prevail, with no apparent struggle. There’s something comforting in that constancy.

After about three hours behind the wheel, I pulled off the highway onto a backroad and soon saw the sign for the colony. I turned onto a narrow dirt and gravel path that wound uphill through the forest, arriving at a sylvan retreat, high in the mountains.

I was greeted by a massive Great Pyrenees with white fur like soft cotton. He jumped up on me as soon as I dragged myself out of the car, stood up on his hind legs, and jammed his front paws onto my shoulders. I’ve always loved dogs and immediately made friends with this frisky creature who seemed delighted to have me there.

Jean-Paul, get down, I heard from a distance. Whoever it was pronounced the name the French way, with a nasal n. The man who admonished the animal made his way across the lawn and introduced himself.

André Lanier.

Ronan, I’m here —

I know, he interrupted. My uncle Olivier told me all about you. You’re the last to arrive and you live the closest. Was he mocking me, I wondered. The word brisk came to mind.

André was tall, about my height, and just as husky. His straight, sandy blond hair clung to his skull and extended down onto his forehead. He was wearing a chef’s uniform, with a white canvas coat, baggy pants, and sneakers.

Is your uncle here? I asked. I had heard a lot of stories about him and was anxious to see him for myself. I hear he’s quite a character.

He’s working, André said abruptly. You’ll meet him at dinner. My twin brother Honoré will show you to your chalet. By the way, we both spell our names with accents over the final Es. I suppose he wanted me to understand that they took their French heritage seriously.

Bien sûr, I said, in my best high school accent.

As soon as those words were spoken Honoré appeared behind him. He had moved so quietly that I didn’t see him coming. He’s a deaf-mute, André explained, as he gave him a message in sign language. Don’t worry, he’s pretty good at reading lips.

Honoré nodded, indicating that he had followed the conversation. The two men were far from identical. They were both stocky, though André was taller. He had straight posture that bordered on arrogance, whereas Honoré slouched. André’s eyes were dark brown, beady, and steady, and Honoré’s were large, blue, and constantly in motion. I assumed Honoré relied on his vision in his soundless world. There was something wounded about him. As if he were reading my thoughts, he shrugged and motioned to me to open the trunk, whereupon he grabbed my suitcases before I could protest. He wore a chef’s outfit similar to André’s.

Let him do it, André said. We’re expecting a bad Nor’easter, he added. We need to get you settled quickly.

I heard that on the radio, I said, but I thought the storm was turning out to sea.

That’s what they were saying here too, but you can never trust the weathermen, André said. With all their computers they still get things wrong.

In front of him I saw a group of people frolicking on the lawn. I assumed they were the other artists who had been admitted to the colony. I asked myself how I would fit in with this effete group. Just be yourself, Ronan, I thought. The twins didn’t exactly overwhelm me with warmth. I wondered if they were always so detached.

Reflexively, I pulled out my cell phone. No signal. Olivier had warned me that there’d be spotty coverage. I’d certainly miss speaking with my son Renato, but I promised him I’d write every day. Assuming there was regular mail service this far out in the woods.

André started to walk away just as a guy who looked as old and craggy as the mountains came toward us with a rake over his shoulder. He gave us a cursory nod and shuffled by. I felt as though I had come face to face with the spirit of the forest and I couldn’t help watching his bent back as he walked away. He wore a battered olive green jacket with a brown woolen collar, torn gloves, faded jeans, and work boots unlaced at the top.

My facial expression must have spoken for me. In case you were wondering, that’s Joe Sledge, André said. He has been working for my uncle for decades.

With that, André quickly walked away and said Join us once you’re unpacked over his shoulder.

Honoré led me toward a group of eight chalets about a hundred yards from what appeared to be the main campus. The publicity materials for Interlude said the accommodations were rustic, but they were anything but. The first thing I noticed was the superb condition of the cedar siding, which ordinarily weathers to gray in the harsh New England climate. It looked like it had been stained with an auburn pigment that made the wood look fresh and lustrous. Inside my chalet the walls were covered with Brazilian bloodwood, with a distinctive red luster, with inlaid strips of aromatic sandalwood, redolent of a sweet version of balsamic vinegar. (I learned this from a note on the dresser.) There were two large whiteboards, inviting doodling, with an ample supply of magic markers in various shades. One unusual feature: A full-sized manikin dangled from a hook on the back of the door. The figure was anatomically correct and had a rather lifelike mask. Too bad I’m no artist, I thought, otherwise I could use it as a model. I noticed that a flashlight was attached to a metal plate on the wall by the front door. Did that mean the electricity was unreliable?

The A-frame ceiling vaulted up to a height of 20 feet. The back wall, facing south toward the valley, was all glass. That, combined with two large skylights, let in so much sun in the late afternoon that the place was almost too bright.

The furnishings included a platform bed with a quilted spread, a desk with an Aeron chair, a sofa, a bathroom with a shower, and an efficiency kitchenette built into the wall.

Honoré gently placed my suitcases on the floor, then pointed to the door. I wasn’t sure what he was trying to tell me as he moved his hand back and forth and shook his head. No locks? I guessed and spoke the words out loud. He nodded, smiled, and walked away. I was getting no signals from my synesthesia at that point, perhaps because he wasn’t speaking. Even so, my eccentric brain usually produced some sort of quirky response to new people. This time, nothing.

I was busy unpacking my clothes and setting up my desk when a woman with a blond ponytail sticking out of the back of an LA Dodgers baseball cap pushed open the door and barged in. She was wearing a blue plaid shirt, with the tails tied high above her belly button — exposing a tanned, flat stomach, undulating over white jeans that ran to mid-calf.

Your door was partly open, so I figured I’d say hello, she said. Jetta Ortega.

Ronan Mezini, I said. I guess there’s a no-knock policy here. I was only partly kidding.

She completely ignored my comment. I’m an LA actress. Not exactly a rare commodity, I’ll admit. She picked up speed as she talked.

"I haven’t done any commercials, soaps, or reality TV shows, and that is rare where I come from. I prefer serious drama, you know. I’ll bet you’re a writer. You’re lucky. You can hide in plain view, or something like that."

I tried to interrupt: Actually, I haven’t had a chance to —

"Me, I have to carry around so many feelings and wait to be cast before I can showcase them publicly. I’m not afraid to audition. I figure I’ve been on 100 of them. All audiences want is guns, sex, and crime. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. No wonder people put their fingers on the scales and try to use every advantage they can."

I already had a headache. My synesthesia sometimes helps me see the personality behind the exterior. For some reason her voice made me think of dark, brackish water, scratchy violins and street musicians drumming on garbage can lids. My instincts told me that she was tough as a badger underneath an exterior that seemed to be covered with candy. I read somewhere that badgers go for the scrotum when they attack larger animals. Need I say more?

All that Juilliard training helps, I guess, she said. "I’ve been in two films that premiered at Sundance, but neither was able to find a distributor. I hope I’m not talking too much. I guess I’m just nervous. What are you writing about? That’s not a nosy question, is it? I know a lot of screenwriters in LA and they won’t tell me anything about their projects. Not a word."

How would they even have a chance to explain, I thought. Her face was expressive, even in the rare moments when she wasn’t talking. She had green eyes that seemed to absorb everything in front of her. Her features were delicate with a strange quirk. Her lower lip and chin protruded outwards like the bow of a ship when she spoke. She held her head back which accentuated the effect.

Don’t mind me, I just prattle, she continued. Listen, we’ll catch up at dinner, OK? I want to hear all about you. See you soon, she said and walked away.

Is that what they call presence? I asked myself. If so, I’ll keep my profile low. I had to admit she did look like a movie star. Yet she breezed in and out so quickly that I barely had time to make sense of the encounter.

2

Once i was done unpacking, I put on a jacket against the afternoon chill and headed toward the main campus. There were already signs of the coming storm. A line of dark clouds was moving across the sky, as if someone were pushing a big roller of gray paint over the blue background. The gusting wind turned the leaves inside out and rustled the branches of the evergreens, which shed needles that fell on my head as I walked.

I was heading toward a large chalet with a front wall made entirely of glass. Long copper panels ran the length of the roof, with ample skylights arranged in a random pattern. A wraparound porch skirted the outside of the building.

The chalet occupied a terrace etched into the side of a hill that sloped gradually toward a deep valley. On a lower terrace, gurgling fountains emptied into a pond dotted with pink water lilies. On an even lower level, white and pink asters, blue hydrangeas, marigolds, and sunflowers were so abundant that there was an almost audible harmony of colors. At least it seemed that way to me. Even someone without synesthesia would perceive music, I’ll bet. I heard shimmering flutes.

You already met Jetta, the inimitable actress. I’ll do my best to introduce the rest of the artists who had come to spend two months in bucolic isolation. As you’ll come to understand, I’m new to the writing game. I know that it may be hard for readers to keep the cast of characters straight. I’ll try to help.

On the edge of the lawn outside the main chalet a young woman sat with a sketch pad on her lap. She was drawing with such intensity that I felt sorry for the paper. She would look up and follow the contour of the mountains with her pencil in mid-air then aim it back down at the pad all in one motion. I had never seen such concentration so I stopped and watched. She was facing away from me so I could not see her expression.

If you’re going to stare, at least start a conversation, she said, rather pointedly.

Are you always this focused when you work? I asked.

Unless I’m distracted, she said, with a wink in her voice. Thalia Spiros, she said. My friends call me Lia.

I was contemplating three or four rejoinders that may or may not have been witty but opted for silence and a nod instead. Always the safer choice.

I introduced myself and she extended a stiff arm, shook hands, and held the clutch a second longer than expected. She had long brown hair that hung below her shoulder blades. She wore a denim work shirt and white baggy carpenters’ pants, stained with paint.

I can see that we have one thing in common, she said.

Piercing intelligence? I asked. Not a bad line, I thought.

"No, we both wear clothes that can be generously described as sensible," she said, with quotes on the last word.

I looked down at my jeans, sneakers, and rumpled shirt. I suppose she’s right. I do have a bit of an allergy to fashion. Still, I wondered if she insulted me because she’s obnoxious, or if she was just a wiseass. Every time she spoke, she pushed her hair on the right side of her head behind her ear. For some reason I found that intriguing.

Thalia was one of the muses, wasn’t she? I asked.

I’m impressed. Are you a Greek boy?

Nope, Irish, Italian and Albanian.

Albanian? Close enough, she said. OK, Mr. Albanese … I was amazed that she pronounced it the right way, as in Alban-EH-zay, not Albaneeze. What was Thalia in charge of?

Comedy and idyllic poetry, I answered. Are you going to help me improve my sense of humor?

Maybe. I generally make men laugh.

Remind me never to invite you to a funeral, I said. I like to maintain some semblance of decorum.

Odd that you mention death. There’s something in the air here, she said. She seemed distracted then suddenly turned and looked over at a row of three or four red and blue Adirondack chairs. A thin African-American guy, sporting tortoiseshell glasses that gave him the air of a young professor, was sitting alone on one of the chairs. His head was tilted back and he kept taking generous pulls from a flask.

I think that’s Zane Weaver, the actor, Lia said. Let’s go and say hello. She tucked her sketchpad under her arm and was off.

Obediently, I followed. I tend to be relatively quiet in new situations so I was happy to let her take the lead.

Are you shy, Mezini? Lia asked.

No, I’m just scared of women, I said with a smirk.

Been hurt?

Define hurt, I mumbled, as she pushed her hair back again. Why does she only do that on her right side, I wondered.

By this time we were standing over Zane who never took his eyes off the darkening sky.

"You do seem to resemble Edmund Tyrone," Lia said.

D-, did you see the show? Zane asked.

"No, I just read about it. The Miami Herald ran a story about you."

For the first time, Zane looked at both of us, with a pained expression. I d-, do try to live the parts I play, he said shyly.

"I’d imagine that Long Day’s Journey Into Night can take a lot out of an actor," I said diplomatically. I knew more about O’Neill than I let on.

Zane looked at me with rueful eyes. The late afternoon sun gave his face a golden glow. He blinked and took another drink.

What’s your poison? Lia asked.

Courvoisier, Napoleon’s favorite cognac, he said and offered her the flask.

Without hesitating she took a drink.

Mezini? she asked and handed me the flask. I couldn’t refuse.

Wh-, what’s your first name? Zane asked me. Excuse my st- stutter. Odd, for an actor, isn’t it?

Ronan. And this is Lia Spiros, I said, ignoring his confession out of politeness. "Forgive my ignorance, but where did you act in Long Day’s Journey?" I asked.

Zane shrugged. At the Kennedy Center in DC, Lia