Crow-Black The Night

By Benjamin Foster

Sixteen years ago, Donna Bellarmine had everything: Money, fame, and artistic success. Her chart-topping band, Madonna Bell, ruled the airwaves and sold out stadiums, until one night she lost it all.

Now she's nine months sober and reconnecting with Renata, the teenage daughter she gave up for adoption. When a music executive coaxes her out of self-imposed exile, she heads for rural Wisconsin with a new lineup of Madonna Bell to record a comeback album in a secluded mansion called the Haven. With her friend and manager Charisse at her side, and Renata visiting for the week, everything's looking up. Then a storm cuts them off from civilization and people start turning up murdered.

Donna must sift through the secrets and lies of the musicians and crew to discover which of them is the killer. And she'll have to reckon with her past if she's going to make it out of the Haven alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350921649

Book preview

1

The Höllenmund was packed. Tickets had sold out a month earlier, and there didn’t appear to be a single no-show. Even the upper balcony was shoulder-to-shoulder.

The support band finished their last song and left the stage to tepid applause as the velvet stage curtain closed and the house lights came up. The less fanatical amongst the crowd relinquished their spots on the floor, forming lines at the steel tubs at the back of the room overflowing with ice and cans of beer.

Fans milled around the merch tables in the lobby, the uncouth pulling on their new T-shirts and eliciting snide looks from those who thought wearing a band’s merch at their show was the equivalent of showing up to a funeral in a Speedo. In the main room, friends gathered in small groups and shouted to be heard over the Gin Blossoms, Breeders, and Hole songs blaring from the speakers.

Bladders and wallets emptied, the stragglers made their way back holding plastic cups of cheap beer sold at a premium price. Shoulders and thighs jostled, seeking last-minute claims on real estate held by anyone unwilling to stand their ground.

The soundboard was stationed two-thirds of the way back on the main floor. Behind it stood Petrov, a slim, dark-haired man in his forties. He checked his watch and stopped the music track dead. The crowd quieted, murmuring in hushed tones as if awaiting the start of a religious service.

Behind the curtain, Donna ascended the stage left stairs perched atop a pair of five-inch heels. The room went dark and she misstepped, teetering for a long second before hooking the handrail with a finger. She silently cursed the tech for killing the house lights a minute early and resumed her climb.

When she reached the top, she took up a post next to the monitor board and reversed the camera on her phone. Her makeup was on-point. She had paid too much to have her dirty-blonde hair styled into victory rolls, but she’d never have been able to do it herself. The fifties-style red and black halter dress she’d picked up at Olds Cool Vintage flattered her still-a-little-too-thin frame. I look pretty good, she thought, and although she couldn’t quite believe it, the furtive glances of the crew told her she was right. If she’d been on the floor, heads would’ve turned, but the hair and the clothes were for her, not a guitar tech or some horny punter. Tonight was special.

Rudder, a cinder block with breasts, squatted next to the drum riser, feet anchored in a wide stance as she taped down a loose cable. She was the only house crew member still on the stage, tolerated by the road crew only because of her bearing, which suggested getting in her way would have consequences. She surveyed her work, chomped her gum, and exited with a satisfied grunt.

Hung centered on the wall behind the riser was a twelve-by-twenty backdrop displaying a Technicolor rattlesnake logo below the word Serpentello. The image was flat and muted on the dark stage, but when the lights hit, it would pop like a supernova.

A door at the foot of the stairs opened and the tour manager scurried through, holding a flashlight beam to the floor as he led the band to the stage. Tommy wasn’t with them. Of course he wasn’t. If he had been, he wouldn’t be Tommy. To him, making everyone fret before his last-minute entrance was part of the job. The TM was new enough to play that game, but Donna had seen it too many times to be fazed.

Keith took a spot next to her and lifted his head in a slight nod. She returned the greeting with a raised chin, both of them too cool to acknowledge the tension.

She had always loved the moments before a show. Anticipation bloomed in the center of her chest and moved through her extremities into her hands and feet like light fragments rippling through her veins. It expanded up her neck, into her face and forehead, and out through the follicles of her hair, every molecule throbbing in suspense. This was the good nervous energy, a respite from the ever-present undercurrent of anxiety that poisoned the rest of her waking hours.

The digital clock on top of the monitor engineer’s soundboard flashed 11:57. Keith, Paul, and the new guy, Gary, fidgeted, slapping palms on thighs and performing last-minute stretches.

Donna watched the clock. The engineer watched her. When seven became eight, she gave him a nod. He reached around the curtain and raised a thumb. A beat later, the intro music rolled: the theme from The Warriors, all phased-out guitar and hi-hat.

Eighty-eight seconds.

The TM’s eyes flitted between the stage and the door. He’ll be here, he muttered. Don’t worry.

Nobody was worried; it was the TM’s job to worry.

The curtains parted and the crowd went silent, eyes locked on the stage. As Paul strode to the drums, the security men stationed behind the barricade craned their necks to gawk right along with the audience. On the dark stage, Paul was only a shadow that might just as easily be a roadie as a musician. It was only when Keith claimed his guitar from the tech and took his spot that they realized the show was on. A single unintelligible shout rang out from the back of the house, and then the whistles and cheers rolled through the crowd like bubbles spilling from a cauldron.

Gary staggered past Donna, stinking of bourbon. He grabbed his bass and positioned himself stage left, assuming a carefully rehearsed, albeit wobbly pose.

Donna bounced on the balls of her feet, eyeing the center-stage mic stand. Flanked by two monitor wedges and a dozen bottles of water, it seemed to beckon to her.

Twenty seconds.

A shiver of pleasure shot through her. She was ready to take the stage.

The intro music transitioned into its gradual fade. A familiar hand clasped her shoulder. She forced a smile and turned to face him.

Tommy wore tight black jeans that would look ridiculous on any other man his age. A silver death’s-head belt buckle glimmered under the stage lights. His Beatle boots were shined to a high gloss. He’d left his blood-red long-sleeved shirt unbuttoned to mid-torso, revealing a nest of graying chest hair. A lot of women would find him attractive. To her, he was just Tommy.

Handsome, slim, and talented, Tommy Swank was rock and roll incarnate. Once upon a time, he’d been a world-class prima donna, trashing hotel rooms, firing crew members for looking him in the eye, and throwing destructive tantrums over every minor rider discrepancy. But age had mellowed him. These days, he preferred to play the guileless joker, gliding through a charmed life with no real concept of time or responsibility.

Everything good? she asked.

He answered with a wink and strolled over to his Gibson SG, gleaming white against a Marshall half-stack next to the drum riser. The crowd erupted in a riot of screams at the sight, but he ignored them as he strapped on the guitar and stepped up to the mic.

Midnight struck.

The stage lights flared blue, purple, magenta, and amber, illuminating the band and casting a soft glow on the paterae of the gold-painted balcony friezes. Tommy stood posed like a middle-aged Adonis, head hung chin-to-chest. The crowd responded with a primitive roar, howling, throbbing, and lunging at the stage, rocking the metal barricades and pushing the yellow-shirted security team backward.

Tommy lifted his hand and hit a chord. As the rest of the band kicked in, he condescended to lift his eyes to the audience, delivering the lyrics in his rough-hewn baritone like a homily. The house lights flashed for a half-second, exposing the crowd as it spasmed in an anarchic frenzy of dancing, shouting, swaying, diving delirium.

Happy New Year.

Donna flattened herself against the cold concrete wall, the tension draining out of her. She let out a long breath and turned to walk back to her office.

2

Donna saved the spreadsheet on her laptop, hit print, and closed the file. While the printer hissed and whirred, spitting out pages, she grabbed a water from the mini-fridge, dropped into the chair at her desk, and took a long pull from the bottle.

The doorknob jiggled.

Knock, please.

The door opened a crack, and Tommy poked his head in. She flipped him off. He pushed the door open all the way. Next to him stood a middle-aged man in a slim-fit teal suit. She put the bird down with some reluctance.

This is Mitch McCoy, said Tommy, leading suit-guy in. He runs my label.

Hair trimmed with mathematical precision and styled with judiciously applied product; stubble beard that might have been airbrushed on; the faint aroma of citrus and bergamot; the guy was music industry head-to-toe.

Donna Bellarmine, she said, slipping on her stilettos. She stood to greet him, the heels boosting her up to his eye level.

I was just telling Tommy I’m a big fan of your record, said Mitch, his smile revealing a row of professionally whitened teeth. I knew you two were friends, but I didn’t realize you worked here.

She shook the hand he offered: smooth, clean, baby-soft. It’s only been a month, she said. Pretty sure they put me on tonight as some kind of hazing ritual.

Please, said Tommy. You couldn’t keep away from me if you wanted to, and we both know you don’t want to. He leaned against the door frame and scrolled on his phone.

Madonna Bell, said Mitch, shaking his head in wonderment. You were tremendous.

Nobody calls me that anymore.

Sorry. But that album is phenomenal.

I’m surprised anyone remembers the music.

There are more of us than you might think. He took a seat on the corner of her desk. A lot of time has passed.

The Internet never forgets.

Nobody cares about that anymore. Nobody who matters, anyway. He adjusted his tie. Tommy mentioned you’re in the program now.

She nodded, making a mental note to tell Tommy to shut his big mouth.

He also says you never stopped making music, Mitch continued. According to him, you’ve got enough material for three albums.

He exaggerates. She shot a death glare at an oblivious Tommy, still engrossed in his phone. I only let him hear the songs because he kept bugging me.

Well, if you ever want to take a shot at a comeback—

She showed him a palm. You used the phrase ‘in the program’ a minute ago. Not something people usually say unless they’re in it themselves.

Thirty years in June.

Congratulations. Me, I just got my nine-month key tag. I don’t actually dress like this most nights, but what with the anniversary and this being my first sober New Year’s since high school, I figured I’d cosplay like a lady. It might seem lame—

It doesn’t.

That’s kind of you, but I know how small it is. And I’m okay with that. I’ve got a small life. I have my job, my apartment, my meetings, and three friends. If things keep going well, I might get a cat.

Fair enough. Mitch got to his feet. It was an honor to meet you. And if you ever change your mind… He drew a business card from his breast pocket, laid it on the desk, and gave it a pat. It really was a pleasure to meet you.

You too.

I’ll catch up with you back in the green room, said Tommy.

Mitch exited, the clicking of his shiny dress shoes fading into an awkward silence.

Tommy shot a nonchalant glance around the office. You’d think they’d at least give you a window.

Donna punched him on the shoulder.

Hey!

So you’re in A&R now?

He wanted to meet you. He’s a fan!

She jabbed a finger at him like a little sword. You are the most… She stopped.

Most what? he asked with his trademark choirboy innocence.

She picked up McCoy’s card with a thumb and forefinger, crumpled it in a fist, and dropped it in the wastebasket.

I’m not playing your game, she said, taking a seat. That’s what you want, and you’re not getting it.

What I want is for you to stop lurking around the wings of this place like Lon Chaney and get back to making music.

She swung her legs up on the desk, aiming the stiletto spikes at him. You’re the one who got me this job, remember?

He shrugged. You need to earn a living. Doesn’t mean you can’t make music too. Okay, so I tried a little matchmaking between you and my label. What a heel I am! I had the audacity to think those songs of yours deserve to be heard by an audience of more than me, myself, and I. He crossed his arms. I saw you tonight, all worked up like you were about to take the stage. You can’t admit it, that’s your business.

I miss it. I’m not denying that. And I don’t mean to hurt your feelings—

I’m Tommy Swank! he snorted. I don’t have any feelings!

It’s just… I’m not ready.

If you say so.

I say so.

He took a bottle of orange juice from the mini-fridge. Nice work, he said. On the nine months thing, I mean. He gave her a lazy salute and ambled back down the hall to his greenroom, whistling Auld Lang Syne.

She grabbed her report from the printer and headed for the door. As she reached for the knob, her hand hovered in midair as if repelled by a charm. She stood in place for ten seconds like a nervous child hesitating in front of an escalator before turning back to her desk.

The browser window was still open on her laptop. She typed her request into the search bar and scrolled down through dozens of results to find the one she wanted: MADONNA BELL FIRST SHOW @ PINK’S, CHICAGO. It had over 180 million views. That wasn’t as many as the official videos, but somebody clearly still cared.

She expanded to full-screen and hunched forward. The video was grainy and poorly lit, but she was interested in the content, not the cinematography.

It was a South Side dive bar. Neon beer signs tacked on walls that were peeling faded pink paint. An ancient pinball machine and a jukebox that hadn’t spun a new