LOVE IS SERIES #1
“Love is patient…” 1 Corinthians: 13:4
HOUNDED
Anita Klumpers
Copyright 2016 Anita Klumpers
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Cover Art by Joan Alley
Edited by Susan M. Baganz
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means without the permission of Prism Book Group. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Published by Prism Book Group
ISBN-10: 1-943104-37-9
ISBN-13: 978-1-943104-37-6
First Edition, 2016
Published in the United States of America
Contact info: [email protected]
http://www.prismbookgroup.com
TABLE OF CONTENTS
LOVE IS SERIES #1
HOUNDED
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE HOUND OF HEAVEN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEDICATION
To Mom, who wanted me to write children’s books.
Sorry, Mom. I tried but I couldn’t do it.
You would still be proud though, because that is the kind of mom you were.
I love you and miss you every day, and would take you back in a heartbeat
but I know you wouldn’t come.
CHAPTER ONE
I stand amid the dust o’ the mounded years—
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke
“The Hound of Heaven,” Lines 120-122
This funeral was so different than the last one. Both drew large crowds to the visitation and service. But the first one had been filled with messy grief, loud sobbing and noisy comfortings. In this regal cathedral with its carved altar, high-backed pews and vaulted ceiling, outward manifestations of grief were unseemly. Even the elaborate stained glass windows transmuted bright sunbeams into particles of understated pastels.
Elise looked at Timothy’s coffin. Pounds and pounds of hothouse flower sprays crawled along its cover. Standing arrangements with pride of place near the open lid reached slouching lilies toward Timothy. Such a futile gesture. His powdered nose couldn’t smell them. Lucky guy. Elise wanted to gag from their stench.
Christopher’s coffin had been closed, nothing but a pressed American flag on top. They all agreed—Elise, Christopher’s parents, his siblings, that in lieu of flowers, contributions be made to the Wounded Warrior Project. The morning of Christopher’s funeral Elise had walked alone down country lanes and gathered armloads of Queen Anne’s Lace, yellow tansy, and sky-blue chicory. The law frowned on picking of wildflowers but she gravitated to those lowly species considered weeds.
The Reverend Lucille Montague began winding down. She’d extolled Timothy’s virtues, his contributions to the betterment of society and the express hope that his soul would live on in his children and grandchildren. Poor Lucille. She hadn’t much to work with in the spiritual realm. Timothy in life remained a devoted agnostic who gave the church great sums of money in its quest for social change. If all went according to Timothy’s plan, he was now, body and soul, really truly dead forever.
The family was being called to come forward before the lid closed on Timothy. As his widow, Elise should have led the procession, but the head pallbearer instead extended an elbow to Timothy’s daughter, Vanessa. At the same time, his brother Palmer leaped from across the aisle and tucked Vanessa’s arm in his. Shaking off both men, and never taking her eyes from the coffin, Vanessa marched forward and in a booming voice to jar the gilded chandeliers, said, “Rest in peace, Daddy.”
Timmy Junior tottered forward. Associate in his father’s law firm, two children of his own, and still known far and wide as Timmy Junior, he had all his father’s handsome features, but on Timmy they looked just this side of finished, a sort of modeling clay version of Timothy. The slightest pressure and his face would be quashed into flatness. Elise snorted at the image and was horrified that she had been audible. She pressed a lacy handkerchief to her nose and hoped anyone in earshot would assume she had been overcome with grief.
They wouldn’t, though. And she wasn’t. At Christopher’s funeral she had maintained a brittle poise and fooled no one. They knew hot grief surged just beneath the frost line. This time the freeze went deep. All the way to the soul Timothy claimed she didn’t have.
Timmy Junior’s wife accompanied him to the casket, gripping his arm as he swayed over his father’s body. When he flung arms wide as though to embrace the cadaver, she dragged him back to the pew. Their two small children hadn’t come. Timothy’s grandchildren must be home with the longsuffering nanny. Elise rose briskly. No matter what the chief of the pallbearers had been told, she intended to go before Timothy’s parents and certainly before his ex-wife. At the coffin she stopped and looked critically down at its occupant. The morticians had done an excellent job. No one would guess the entire back of Timothy’s head was caved in.
The casket cover closed and so did the Celebration of Life. Lucille announced there would be no graveside ceremony in accordance with the wishes of the deceased. Everyone could just follow the family—she hesitated a brief second before nodding coolly at Elise—into the church fellowship hall for a catered meal. Pallbearer-in-chief appeared torn, but parked himself next to the pew where Elise had been sitting in solitary, and she followed the satin-lined mahogany casket down the aisle and out of the church.
In the fellowship hall—surely too homey a term for this drafty, echoing space with its antique wooden tables covered in white linen cloths and gleaming silverware—Elise looked hopefully for someone to sit with. Her parents were in an assisted living center, leaning more on assistance and less on living, and she’d told them they needn’t attend. Her only sister lived in France. But all the friends from high school. Where were they? They’d come out in droves, flocks, herds, to Christopher’s funeral. They’d fluttered around her, sobbing on her shoulder, acolytes begging the chief mourner for comfort.
An arm lifted from a far corner and agitated in her direction. Thanking God for angels among us, Elise waved back. The angel attached to the arm had a high forehead sloping into a grove of bright brown curls, only marginally less dense than in high school. The neon-blue eyes in those years had winked through glasses, usually lopsided or cracked.
“Russ! You got contacts!”
Russell Martinez unfolded his lanky self from the chair and folded her in long arms. Now would be the perfect time to break down and cry. Elise twitched her eyes experimentally. No tear lurked, and she refused to produce false sobs.
“Elise, I’m so sorry about Timothy.”
She shrugged and reali
zed she should probably break the embrace. Someone no doubt was counting the seconds of its duration. “Can I please sit with you, Russ? You look so alone at the table by yourself, and I don’t seem to see anyone else I care to eat funeral meats with.”
He surveyed the room, easy from his seventy-five-inch height. “I know. I couldn’t find a single soul I recognized at the service.” He pushed her gently into the chair next to his. “I’m going to get you a plate of food. Where’s the buffet table?”
Elise smiled a restraint. “No buffet. This is catered. Our five-star meal will be delivered by trained professionals. Someone should bring around coffee soon, though. Make sure they don’t miss our table.”
He sat down, shaking his head. “This is the darndest funeral I’ve ever been to.”
“Russell Martinez. Such language from a minister of the Word. This is how rich people die.”
With one of the swift, turn-on-a-dime movements that had made him star of the soccer team in high school, Russ pushed his chair away from the table and strode around to sit across from her. “I have to see your face when I’m talking to you. Elise. What is going on here? Why hasn’t anyone from the family, or Timothy’s friends, or even his pastor, talked to you?”
“They had to, during the visitation,” Elise told him with satisfaction. “I made them say something. Wouldn’t let their limp hands out of mine till they did. And if I didn’t know who was pretending to be sorry for my loss, I made Timothy’s family introduce me.” She inspected the other mourners. “It is odd, though. How is it possible that an entire room seems to have its back to me when I can see most of their faces?”
Again Russ scanned the room, slowly this time. Elise watched as several eyes rose when they felt his gaze coming, slid over to see Elise across from him, and turned away.
“Lucille isn’t a pastor. She’s a capital R Reverend. I think she had a crush on Timothy.” She didn’t bother to lower her voice.
Russ winced. “You really don’t try to garner popular opinion, do you?”
Elise shrugged. Such an easy response. But Russ deserved more. She spoke quietly in deference to him. “Timothy and I were married for three years. His friends tolerated me. Men in Timothy’s social and economic circle regularly ditch starter wives and rob the cradle for trophies. I was in their class, or near enough. And I’m a war widow, which gave me some clout, but none of them really liked me. Especially his family. His marriage to Patrice was long over. I didn’t break it up, Russ, truly. They’d all begun to hope that no other marriages or future offspring would complicate familial relationships. Then Elise, the fly in the ointment, came along. I get a huge chunk of Timothy’s money, you know.”
Russ’s discomfort had always manifested itself with fidgets and body shifts. Now he fairly vibrated on his chair. Long fingers snatched her hand. “Elise. You’re describing a gold-digger, a leech. I wouldn’t talk to that girl, either. Unless you’ve had a complete personality readjustment, I want you to tell me what is going on.” He spoke the last four words slowly and deliberately, as though to a recalcitrant child.
“To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, losing one husband may be regarded as a misfortune, to lose two looks like carelessness. Russ, you know I didn’t cope with Christopher’s death very well. I tried to talk him out of enlisting, but he said it was a great way to get his education paid for. I didn’t just not want him to join, I begged him not to. But he said the National Guard was the safest way to go. See how that worked out for him?”
Russ patted her hand in sympathy even though her eyes stayed dry. “He died a hero, though.”
She pulled away with impatience. “I’m not critiquing Christopher’s chosen method of sanctioned suicide. When I met Timothy I was still—not quite right. I’d had a breakdown, Russ. A subtle one. Sleepwalking, not eating, but all very genteel. Wildly unhealthy. So instead of picking up where I’d left off before Christopher and I married, I thought I would try to get it right. Marrying a young, sort of poor, sort of homely jock hadn’t worked. So I found an older, very rich, very handsome attorney.” She leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief. “Timothy thought he’d selected me. He was so wrong. I had him picked out before I even spoke to him.” She relaxed into the solid wood chair. “Have I shocked you, Pastor Martinez?”
Russ snorted and rested his chin on his hands. “Pastors see everything. No human action or emotion can shock us.” He added, softly, “We even experience some of them.” He glanced up. “The trained professionals have arrived.”
A white-gloved hand reached over her shoulder with a salad. “Excuse me, ma’am. I see this table didn’t get a fruit and cheese platter. Shall I have one brought over?”
Elise raised eyebrows at Russ. The young pastor had moved elbows to make room for the waiter, now reverently placing a bowl of mixed greens with dried cranberries, sugared walnuts and just enough feta cheese to be flavorful without appearing festive. “I don’t know. What else is there?”
The gentleman seemed taken aback by the direct question but recovered. “There will be Shrimp Newburg, sir. A platter of roasted beef and smoked sliced turkey. You may also choose an entree of baked rigatoni or Italian meatballs and sausages. Rolls and butter of course—ah, here they are now.” Another pair of gloved hands placed a basket cuddling a white linen napkin which in turn cuddled several yeasty rolls and two kinds of butter. “We have assorted cheesecakes for dessert and we’ll be bringing beverages.” He surveyed the table and the slightest of frowns creased his forehead. “I’ll make certain you get water here. I don’t know how we missed this table. The fruit and cheese platter?”
The wait staff hadn’t been able to see past the invisible barrier of animosity the rest of the mourners had thrown about her. She knew how Russ loved cheese. And if the family didn’t want her to have cheese, by cracky, she’d have cheese. “Yes, bring us the fruit and cheese plate. Don’t hurry with our baked rigatoni and meatballs. But, waiter.” She fixed stern eyes on him. “Please make certain we do get those entrees.”
She didn’t bother to wait till he was out of earshot. “It’s a conspiracy, Russ. To make me invisible.”
Poor guy. He didn’t know how to handle this new, blunt, abrasive Elise. He picked up a fork and pointed it at her salad. “Eat. All of it. You never used to be skinny. I’d say you’re teetering on the brink.”
They ate in silence. Russ, whose business was mankind, kept glancing about the room. Now he stiffened. “Did Stevie Wonder know Timothy?”
“Who?”
“Sorry. That’s what we called him on the soccer field. Remember him? A few years ahead of us in school. Steve Bly. Last I’d heard he made detective on the Des Moines police department.”
Their waiter arrived with water, and they still hadn’t gotten their fruit and cheese plate. He apologized again and Elise answered, dripping sweetness. “Please don’t worry yourself one little bit. Run along and do what you need to do.” Rising, she swept past him and stalked to the table bordered by Timothy’s family.
“So sorry to bother you all. Let me clear away some of this clutter.” She hoisted their cheese platter onto her flattened hand and carted it back to where Russ watched, mouth gaping. “Look what I found.” Then she fainted and the fruit and cheeses and china plate all followed her to the floor.
CHAPTER TWO
I pleaded, outlaw-wise,
By many a hearted casement, curtained red
“The Hound of Heaven,” Lines 16-17
Elise opened her eyes, momentarily certain she’d been blinded. By tears? Her face dripped liquid. She hadn’t been able to stop crying after Christopher’s funeral, but that was long ago.
“No tears for Timothy.”
“Pardon?”
Had she spoken out loud? She put a bewildered hand to her head and realized she wasn’t blind or crying. Someone had lain a wet cloth on her forehead and done a lousy job wringing it out. She pulled it off and looked into a pair of pale blue eyes. Light-lashed, a bit bloodshot, and with a poss
ibly clogged tear duct in the right one.
“Who are you?”
Russell Martinez’s voice came from somewhere off to one side. “Elise, you remember Steven Bly. I thought I saw him here.” Russ’s voice sounded level but Elise knew something was wrong. “He actually is a detective. He works out of a few departments. Including homicide.”
“Am I lying down?”
The pale eyes blinked. “Don’t you know, Mrs. Amberson? We carried you to the library after you fainted. You’re lying on a sofa. Can you sit up?”
“Of course. And I’ll need to dry my face.” Something large and white fluttered over her shoulder. Russ’s handkerchief.
“You still carry around those boat sails, Martinez?” The light-lashed eyes left Elise’s face. “How do you fold it so you don’t look like you’re carrying a camel in your back pocket?”
Russ ignored him. “It’s clean, Elise. I sit with a lot of crying folks in my business.”
“Me too.” Detective Bly said dryly. Both men waited. Elise swung shaky legs over the side of the couch. Someone had mercifully removed her four-inch heels. They made her tall and imposing but hurt like the dickens. Slowly, refusing Russ’s proffered hand, she sat up. Taking the handkerchief—real cotton, she noted with approval—she wiped her face and looked around.
The library was one of the few rooms at the church Elise recognized. She would wait there while Timothy schmoozed with clients and potential clients—the kinds who kept bases covered and loopholes managed. Church attendance, in case God paid attention. Timothy, in case the IRS did.
Sweat had gathered between her shoulder blades, on the backs of her knees. “They cheated with this sofa. It isn’t leather. Just pretending to be.” A split second after rising to her feet, her sweaty legs buckled and she fell back on the faux leather. Russ rushed to her side but Detective Bly stayed seated and watched them both. Particularly Elise.
Hounded Page 1