Hounded

by Anita Klumpers

  “Are you given to fainting spells, Mrs. Amberson?”

  “Stop the stupid formality, Steve.” Russ was irritated. “You know Elise.”

  Steven Bly nodded. “I knew Christopher better. I went to his funeral, Elise.” He stressed the syllables of her name ever so slightly. “You seemed more upset then, but you didn’t faint.”

  Russ sat next to her and looped a long, protective arm around her shoulder. It tightened.

  “Well, I did this time. Maybe because I’ve barely eaten for several days. And then they couldn’t be bothered to bring us one measly fruit and cheese plate.”

  “Why haven’t you been eating, Mrs. Amberson?”

  So they were back to stupid formalities. Russ’s arm went rigid. “Why are you asking, Steve?”

  “Just wondering.” The eyes shifted. “Russ, what is your relationship to Mrs. Amberson?”

  Russ jerked the tense arm back to his lap. She looked at his flushed face in surprise and her heart sank. Russell Martinez still thought he loved her.

  “Pastor Martinez is my spiritual counsel right now, Detective Bly.” She stared straight at him, willing him not to notice the astonishment that had to be on Russ’s face. He saw it, but didn’t react.

  “Isn’t St. Andrew’s your church?”

  “No, I never joined. It’s my husband’s church.” Almost literally, she thought, and hoped she hadn’t said that one out loud.

  “Mrs. Amberson, there are some things we’re a bit…curious about. Would you mind answering a few questions?”

  Elise stared at him in disbelief. “Here? In a church library? What sort of questions can’t wait until I’m home?”

  The tension emanated from Russ so palpably that the hairs on her arms raised. Steven Bly’s eyes darted back and forth between them. He answered her with another question and she wanted to slap him.

  “Why not now? We’re all here together. You. Me. Your spiritual advisor.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake. Let’s get it over with. What do you need to know so desperately?”

  “Elise. Wait.” Russ was dreadful at any sort of dissembling. He tried to sound casual but the words dripped urgency. “Steve, is she required to answer anything?”

  Steve seemed affronted. “Of course not! Please, Mrs. Amberson—Elise. I didn’t mean to give you that impression at all. These are just normal questions that come up in an unexpected and violent death. As the only one home at the time—” his pause was just a beat too long, “—and the last one to see him alive, you’re the logical choice to ask for some clarifications.”

  Increasingly uneasy—she must be catching it from Russ—Elise slipped her shoes on to buy a few seconds. They still hurt. But she loved the extra height. And the name—stilettos—gave her the footgear version of Dutch courage. She needed it now. Standing quickly, she glared down at the detective.

  “I’ll answer questions I want to answer.” She hoped her voice sounded firm. No, hard. That’s the tone she wanted. “If I think you are trying to manipulate me in any way, for any purpose, I’ll walk out the door and the next person you see will be my attorney. And he’s a master of his craft.” She added sweetly, “Shall we get started?”

  At her abrupt change of tone, Detective Steven Bly blinked. So did Russ. Elise wanted to keep the advantage in her court as long as possible.

  “The table seems like a good place for an interview, don’t you think, gentlemen? Not so cozy as the sofa but more convenient. I’ll want to take notes, naturally. If I remember correctly a stack of scrap paper lurks somewhere because the 11th Commandment clearly states “Thou shalt recycle.” She searched the shelves and pounced. “There, you see? Enough for the entire population of Iowa to practice long arithmetic. I think three sheets should be plenty. No pens here, more’s the pity. The church won’t buy the disposable kind. A pencil will have to suffice.” She beamed at Steven Bly, all eager anticipation. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, Detective Bly.”

  “Elise.” Steven decided to try the old-school-chums-together approach. “I know this is a tough day for you. But you’re a tough girl. Remember the fight in the stands at the game with Pella? You waded right in, pompoms flying, and broke it up single-handed.”

  It wasn’t quite single-handed. Mr. Merrill, the Economics teacher, had been right with her. And it wasn’t so much courage as a flaming temper. The fight between rowdy fans started in the middle of a routine the cheer squad had spent months perfecting. But if Detective Bly chose to see her as gutsy, she wouldn’t dissuade him.

  It also wouldn’t be wise to antagonize him. One reason he’d been so good at soccer, she seemed to remember, was his refusal to back down to an opponent. He kept chasing the ball, never taking his eyes from it, getting around anyone who challenged him. Even an adversary in four-inch heels.

  The questions seemed innocuous, at least at first. Did your husband often go in swimming late at night? Was he a proficient swimmer? You said he’d been drinking, possibly more heavily than usual. Any particular reason?

  Detective Bly wasn’t taking notes and neither, in spite of her posturing, did Elise. She doodled, tidy squiggles that burgeoned into elaborate designs. Russ sat across from her trying every possible arrangement of legs, arms, hands and backside to convey casual, confident ease.

  Steven Bly hadn’t shifted positions once. Leaning only slightly forward, an elbow propped on the table and his chin resting on his knuckles, he could have been watching a lackluster television game show.

  “Mrs. Amberson, tell me about your husband. What was he like? What made him anxious? Did he ever seem depressed?”

  This was unexpected. No one, after Timothy’s lifeless body had been pulled from their backyard pool, had been interested in his mood changes.

  “Detective Bly, Timothy had one characteristic and it describes everything about him. Success. If he seemed driven, it was to succeed. If he acted friendly, it was to succeed. If he showed happiness it was because he’d achieved some success and unhappiness was only a temporary—” she cast around for a word “—way station, maybe, where he’d regroup to tackle his next success.”

  “No one is successful at everything, don’t you agree?”

  “No one except Timothy.” At Steven’s skepticism and Russ’s sigh she knew she needed to clarify. “It didn’t matter that his first marriage fell apart and his son is an insipid underachiever and his daughter a misanthrope who hates everyone. See, Timothy never set out to be a successful husband and father. If he had, he would have been.” She flapped frustrated hands. “Does that make sense?”

  She must be making this harder than it should be. Timothy had essentially been a very simple man.

  “Timothy possessed this genius for breaking goals down to bite-sized morsels. He’d chomp on one, get it down successfully, move onto the next bite. He never downed more than he could handle. And he wouldn’t choose something he didn’t like, or wasn’t interested in. He made certain he never didn’t succeed.”

  The two men listening to this torturous trope seemed mesmerized. Russ leaned toward her as though trying to catch a glimpse of the dead man at work. Steven’s lips pursed. His thumbs flicked up and down and around each other and his pale eyes watched and waited.

  “So what you’re saying is that Timothy was a confident man who didn’t seem to have any overt indications of depression or anxiety.”

  Russ scoffed, “Typical, Steve. Boil it down to a textbook caricature.”

  But Steven, content with his summation, switched topics. “Were you out by the pool that night, Mrs. Amberson?”

  She stared at him. He must have read the reports. “I was in bed. I know you must know all this.”

  He didn’t respond. He wanted her to keep talking. Something was wrong here. Best that she keep her answers short and maybe he would tell her what. So she smiled pleasantly and chose a new sheet of paper for doodling. Russell frowned at no one in particular.

  “You’re a sound sleeper? You didn’t notice he wasn’t
in bed till the next morning when you discovered the body?”

  “Timothy often would work in his study all night and doze on the convertible couch for a few hours.” It wasn’t Steven’s business that Timothy had been sleeping in his study more and more lately, which suited Elise perfectly.

  “So you woke the next morning—when?”

  “Five thirty.”

  “Is that customary?”

  “Yes, it is. Do you want to know the rest of my customary morning routine, Detective?”

  A suppressed rumble from Russ’s throat made them both look at him.

  “Can I ask you something, Steve? Or is it against protocol?”

  Steven Bly didn’t answer, just raised patient brows in Russ’s direction.

  “You haven’t told Elise why this sudden need for ‘clarification.’ Her husband slipped on some wet tiles alongside the pool, hit the back of his head on the edge and fell in the water where he drowned. It’s pretty straightforward.”

  The detective hesitated. “Maybe not quite as straightforward as originally thought. A few odds and ends surfaced and we need to tidy them up.” His pocket buzzed. “Excuse me a minute. Text coming through.” He pulled a cell phone from inside his suit jacket and checked the message. His face remained impassive as he rose. “Thank you, Mrs. Amberson, for your time, and I’m sorry for your loss. Russell, good to see you again. Maybe I’ll drop by that church of yours someday.”

  He was gone. Elise and Russ exchanged puzzled glances and spoke simultaneously.

  “Odds and ends?”

  “What is he up to?”

  Russ stood up and came over to stand by Elise. “Come on, Mrs. Amberson. I’ll walk you to your car.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.

  “The Hound of Heaven,” Line 15

  Few cars remained in the parking lot. Did no one want to linger over assorted cheesecakes? Or make sure the swooning widow was all right? The hearse, with the coffin and its silent inhabitant tucked inside, had departed for the family plot. The Ambersons hadn’t bothered to share the exact location with her but a rarely experienced sympathy for her dead husband made Elise hope he wouldn’t be shoved in a vault in a mausoleum. Timothy in life suffered from mild claustrophobia and a cold stone crypt would turn his final resting place into a cruel paradox.

  At the door of her black luxury sport utility vehicle, nicknamed Bubba and capable of carrying the casket as easily as the hearse, Russ put out a restraining hand. “Elise. This isn’t my business. Well, maybe since you appointed me your spiritual advisor. Did you love Timothy?”

  She wanted to protect this sweet man. Throw a rose-covered fence around his chivalry, his naive, idealized concepts and shield him from reality’s thistles.

  “Not even for a moment. I barely liked him. I should get home. The dogs need to be let out. If it makes you feel better, they loved Timothy. Goodbye, Pastor Russell Martinez. Thank you.”

  “One more thing. Well, two. I told you before, pastors are hard to shock, so if you think you threw me with that confession, you didn’t.” He’d backed away, his earnest face scanning her expressions, her body movements. “Elise, here’s my card. Really. I have a card. Cell number, church number, address, email. All roads lead to Russ. Fisher of men.”

  She took it, noting with amusement the drawing of a fish dangling from a pole, and the euphoric expression on the snagged fish’s face. She tucked the card in her purse. “Was that the second thing?”

  “No. I need to ask you, Elise. Where do you see God in all this?”

  She dug keys out of her small, tasteful designer handbag and clicked Bubba open. “Pastor Martinez, I have bad news for you. God blew up on a filthy little road in Afghanistan.”

  She kept her head high as she roared away from Russ, past the shambling green pickup she assumed belonged to him. Days like this she almost wished she drank. She would have to settle for a strong pot of coffee. In her stomach a sort of hollow echo reminded her she hadn’t had a chance to eat much at the funeral. Blast that superior waiter. Blast Timothy’s family. She was as certain they had orchestrated the entire boycott as she was that the bill for the pricey funeral would come to her.

  One more block and another corner and Elise would be home. Such a laughable term for the Georgian monstrosity. Even more laughable, she reflected sourly, was that she had no home. Certainly not the family mansion in which she’d been coexisting with Timothy for thirty-seven months.

  Something small and brown darted in front of the car and Elise slammed the brakes, simultaneously swearing and praying. She put Bubba in park, right in the middle of the road, and leapt out. Before the spike heels hit the pavement Mutt surged up her legs. The product of a gene pool brimming with pint-sized ancestors, he couldn’t surge past mid-calf. She leaned over to scoop him up and allowed him several swipes to her face with his stubby tongue.

  “Baby, what are you doing out? Can you unlock doors now? Or did Jeff mastermind this?” Jeff denied the suggestion volubly from the other side of the wrought iron gate. Mutt could squeeze underneath but his co-conspirator had too much girth and not enough courage. “Oh, Jeff. Hold on. I’ll be right in. You stay out of the way!” At her feet Mutt complained about the height of the running board, so Elise picked him up and deposited him in the front seat. She jumped in after him and drove up to the driveway, pushing the button in the overhead for the remote which would open the gates.

  Jeff, eager to please, sat patiently alongside the drive, tail thumping with increasing vigor. Elise opened the door. “Hey, good-lookin’, care to take a little spin?” Jeff, of even more mysterious primogenitors than Mutt, waited politely for Elise to clamber out again so he could hoist himself up, one paw at a time, to join Mutt.

  “Say, boys, we should buy a nice little convertible. How would you like flying along the cornfields with the top down, radio blaring?” The dogs’ enthusiastic response broke off when Elise, rounding the curve that led to the house, squawked in frustration.

  “You have got to be kidding me!”

  She didn’t bother parking the car in the garage, instead bringing it to a squealing stop a few centimeters from the blinding chrome bumper of the German sports car parked in perfect parallel next to a low-slung British convertible and a Japanese luxury sedan and an enormous, muddy blue pickup capable of eating Russ’s little truck for lunch. It was like the United Nations of status symbols. Before she could fly inside she had to help both dogs get out. “Hurry up, pups. I’m spitting mad and I don’t want to lose my momentum.”

  The carved wooden front door proved too weighty to slam but Elise made certain her heels pounded down the inlaid parquet flooring. She needn’t have worried her rage might dissipate. Each step activated another few particles of anger. When she flung open the solarium door every person in the room started.

  “Which of you idiots let my dogs out the front door? I almost hit Mutt on the road!” In spite of her fury she could almost have laughed at the faces gaping back at her.

  Godfrey Amberson, Timothy’s father, dominated every room he inhabited. He stood against the outside wall of the solarium and the light silhouetted his form while shadowing his face. His mouth wouldn’t be gaping. Nothing ever caught Godfrey by surprise. If Timmy Junior’s features were a soft-boiled potato copy of Timothy’s, the patriarch’s had petrified into rock. Feet planted, a drink in one hand, the other fist clenched—the stance had less to do with Elise’s accusation than his attitude toward the world. There were no friends there, only battles he hadn’t met.

  Dorthea, Godfrey’s wife and Timothy’s mother, pursed thin, geranium pink lips at Elise’s outburst. Any emotion unsettled the woman. She barely tolerated embraces from her great-grandchildren. Timmy appeared vaguely guilty, nothing out of the norm. Neither was the drink in his hand. His wife Tiffanie stood next to him, one limp arm on his shoulder. How two such colorless people had produced their garishly frenzied offspring gave Elise cause to question genetics
more than once. Timothy’s daughter sat on a stool. Vanessa consistently chose the least comfortable seating. Timothy’s sister-in-law Therese appeared put out by Elise’s grand entrance. Her husband’s reaction though, was classic Palmer. He strode forward, hand outstretched as though meeting an unscheduled mid-level client.

  “Elise! We didn’t expect you.”

  Where did they think she would be? Lying on the pile of dirt next to Timothy’s six-foot hole in the ground? He hastened on, aware he hadn’t addressed her question.

  “Sorry about the dogs. They were eager to get outside.” Palmer seemed genuinely contrite. “I suppose we thought the fence around the estate was enough to keep them in. Can I get you a drink? It’s been a tough day.” Belatedly he added, “We all hope you recovered from your fainting spell.”

  Leave it to Palmer. He might be slick and cliché-driven. But no one else seemed interested in her physical well-being.

  “I’m fine. Thank you all so much for your concern.” Elise picked up Mutt and waggled him toward the assemblage. “Mutt is barely seven inches high. The bottom of the gate is at least nine inches off the ground. The math seems easy. Yes, Palmer, I’ll have a cranberry juice. What are you all doing here?”

  No one spoke. If she didn’t know better she would say they looked awkward. Ambersons however, never felt ill at ease. “Simple question folks. What are you doing in my house? In my grief did I forget I invited you?”

  That got a rise. “Even for you, Elise, the remark is in poor taste. I buried my son today.” Elise had to give Dorthea credit. She wasn’t a hypocrite and didn’t try to make her voice quaver. But in her chilly way she had affection for her son, and Elise was tired of the mutual dislike underscoring the relationship between herself and Timothy’s family.

  “I’m sorry, Dorthea. Palmer is right. It’s been a tough day.” A glass, sparkling crimson, appeared at her shoulder. “Thank you, Palmer. Please believe I mean it when I say I’m sorry for your loss.” Her hand swept the room. “All of you. But I still wonder why you’re here.”