Hounded

by Anita Klumpers

  Godfrey put his drink down so he could clench both fists. “It’s not your home, Elise. It’s part of the Amberson Family Trust. You know that.”

  Yes, she did. She’d been reminded of it often enough and hadn’t cared. Now, unbidden, a verse from some long-ago Bible class came to mind. “Foxes have dens and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.” She was unutterably tired. Too tired to take up her sword and skirmish with Godfrey.

  Vanessa boomed into the silent breach. “We thought the police officer at the funeral was going to arrest you for killing Daddy.”

  Some small cog in her brain turned a notch and she realized she’d been waiting for this. Trying to keep the cog jammed stuck earlier, she hadn’t pushed Steven Bly into explaining why he wanted more details on the night of Timothy’s death. She sipped her juice and tried to appear unconcerned. Mutt jumped from her lap to get love from someone else—he was a dilettante, a coquette who flirted here and gamboled there and loved not wisely but well.

  Jeff laid a heavy head on her knees. She felt the drool from his jowls dampening her skirt and she rubbed his ridiculous ears. Part something vaguely Labrador Retriever, part Sasquatch, Jeff’s only identifiable trait was loyalty. Unfailingly polite to strangers, he had a cordially distant relationship with Dorthea, Therese, and Tiffanie. Though he disappeared when Timmy’s children were near, he gravitated to all other natural-born Ambersons, but reserved his boundless love for Elise. His love gave her courage right now.

  No one had bothered to soften Vanessa’s bluntness. They waited, and Elise could swear they held their collective breath.

  “Why arrested, Vanessa? He had a few more questions about your father’s accidental death.” She made certain to emphasize “accidental.”

  “I doubt very much it was an accident, Elise.” Godfrey softened his knees a bit, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. Combat-ready position. “I had doubts from the beginning. Two days after he died I asked that it be treated as a suspicious death. They got right on it.”

  Of course “they” had. Godfrey Amberson not only carried clout, he wielded it.

  “So?”

  Timmy piped up. He really did pipe, his voice reedy, almost childlike. “So? What do you mean? You were the only one here when he died. You benefit from his death. And we all knew you didn’t love Dad.”

  His voice cracked and she gave him kudos for not saying “Daddy.” Tiffanie’s hand hovered somewhere above his shoulder and offered the air a comforting little tap.

  Dorthea waved her empty glass at Palmer and he took it, heading toward the study and Timothy’s well-stocked bar. “That officer didn’t mention the anonymous tip?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dorthea. And you know I don’t. Could you please get to the part about why you thought I would be arrested?”

  “I’d like nothing better. Yesterday the homicide department got a phone call—”

  Vanessa barked, “Not a phone call. Email.”

  “They received credible information that the night Timothy died, you and he engaged in a violent argument. You were heard threatening him.”

  “Threatening? Threatening how?” She strained to remember. Where had the anonymous eavesdropper been the other several hundred nights they’d argued? Elise squabbled—even fought—with Timothy because it was the only method she found to make her feel alive. Timothy fought back because, at all costs, he had to be the victor, the king of bickering. She really couldn’t remember what had been the issue that evening. Her politics? His fastidiousness? It all blended into the warp and weave of a relationship held together by threads of contention.

  No one responded. “Come on, people. Your informant at the police department must have told you how I threatened him. You’re the ones who brought this subject up. Let’s finish it so I can eat something and go to bed. Or just turn myself in.” She looked around the room. “Don’t look so hopeful, Therese. I was kidding.”

  “You said, ‘I’d throw a rock at your head but it would just break the rock.’” Vanessa’s bark lowered to a growl. Mutt huddled at Timmy’s feet and Jeff pressed his lumpy head into Elise’s midsection, hoping he wouldn’t have to protect her.

  Elise was taken aback. She remembered. Those were her precise words.

  Everyone watched her, triumphant. Godfrey prowled the room, seeking what he could devour. “Is that what you said, Elise?”

  “It is.”

  He stopped his rounds, looking disappointed he hadn’t gotten to beat a confession out of her. “I’d call it rather incriminatory, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’d call it nonsense.”

  “Nevertheless.” Dorthea rose to join her husband. “A threat is a threat, especially when only hours later that was exactly how Timothy died.”

  “Timothy died because he was drunk. And slipped on wet tiles, and hit the back of his head when he fell in the pool to drown. Am I not right?”

  Godfrey’s rocky lips parted into a smirk for just an instant. Elise could almost hear stone cracking. “You are not right. A rock was found in the xeriscape.”

  *

  The xeriscape had provided Timothy with his latest bragging rights. A garden that needed no watering, but sustained itself through native plants and grasses and the sometimes-parsimonious rain meted out in hot Iowa summers. It had begun as Patrice’s rock garden. After the divorce Timothy debated having the rocks hauled to a quarry but then he’d met Elise and turned the care of the garden over to her. She’d suggested raising cabbages so he’d galloped in to pull the reins from her hands and create the area’s foremost xeriscape. It had been featured in a local Iowa environmentalist magazine.

  “Godfrey, there are a host of rocks in the xeriscape. It used to be a rock garden, remember?”

  Dorthea sniffed. “Of course we remember. We helped Patrice design it.”

  Elise had had enough. They lingered over each tidbit of information like an after dinner mint. “I’m guessing the police found a hunk of geode or Sioux quartzite or granite or whatever the heck else got planted out there, and it had blood and hair on it.”

  Timmy practically squeaked. “How did you know?”

  “Why else would a rock be significant? Now, please leave. If I’m going to be arrested I’d like to get something to eat and a nap in first. Fine funeral, when the widow doesn’t even get to eat.”

  Everyone rose. There were no fond farewells, just another closing of rank, the real Ambersons versus the pretender. Elise locked and bolted the door after them. The bravado of her stiletto heels no longer required, she pulled them off before heading to the kitchen, promising the dogs extra rations.

  Elise was tired and light-headed, or she might have worried about being arrested. Obviously none of the family would stand behind her. Her parents hadn’t the power or health. Her friends seem to have evaporated. Russ. Good old faithful Russ. She wished so much he didn’t still love her. He deserved better.

  Not until she stirred canned soup on the stove did a new thought send her scurrying around the house locking windows and checking doors. The mansion was smack dab center of a three-acre estate. Trees lined the perimeter. The nearest houses were almost a quarter mile away. Sure, the argument had been loud. But not loud enough for some passerby to hear. So who had been in earshot when she’d told Timothy she’d like to hit him over the head with a rock?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Across the margent of the world I fled,

  And troubled the gold gateways of the stars

  “The Hound of Heaven,” Lines 25-26

  Unexpectedly, Elise discovered that the soup did nothing but make her hungrier. She wanted to go someplace with bright lights and happy faces and eat dinner with a kind person. The sole kind person who came to mind was Russell. It seemed tacky to pray to a God she’d pronounced dead only a few hours earlier, but Elise prized pragmatism and right now she needed clout in her corner.

  “You know I talk too much, God. You know I don’t love Yo
u. But Russell Martinez does, with all his heart. Except the part that loves me and about ten billion other living organisms. Since he is so patently Yours, I need to ask You on his behalf that I don’t hurt him again. I need him, though. I’m being selfish but for pity’s sake, God, isn’t a woman widowed twice before she’s thirty entitled to a bit of self-interest? And don’t forget Detective Stevie Wonder who wants to arrest me.” She scrabbled through her purse to find Russ’s card, remembering to add a hasty ‘Amen.’”

  Russ was home. He hadn’t eaten yet. He’d enjoy dinner with her.

  “Dylan’s Steakhouse?”

  “Elise, I’m a poor pastor, not a rich widow.” For a moment she heard nothing. “Sorry. Elise, sorry. What a stupid thing to say.”

  “Forget it. It’s true. Where do you want to go?”

  After she’d finished speaking with Russell, Elise had changed into running clothes and taken first one, then the other dog out for exercise. The differences in height, weight and enthusiasm made it difficult to walk hyperactive Mutt simultaneously with Jeff, who viewed excess physical activity as one of the consequences of the fall. After a quick shower she chose jeans and a t-shirt and nice, flat sneakers. She didn’t need to feel powerfully tall around Russ. An hour and a half later they met at The Chicken Coop.

  “You look marginally better than this morning,” he whispered as they stood in line, mulling choices on the menu board.

  “Compliments like that make a woman glow, Pastor.”

  The girl at the counter smiled at them with all her teeth. Her tag announced she was “Meghan, Trainee,” and her eyes begged for a simple order. Russ asked for a chicken salad sandwich, and lemonade. Elise squashed a qualm of pity for the girl before ordering. What doesn’t kill one makes one stronger. She should know.

  “A double order of nuggets. Deep-fried, not grilled. Honey mustard dipping sauce—no, not honey roasted BBQ sauce, just plain honey mustard. Add a ranch, too. Yes, buttermilk ranch is fine. Two sides please. Fries and…” she grimaced up at the board. “Cole slaw.” Dutifully Meghan punched buttons. “No, not coleslaw. Chicken salad cup. Is that good? Fresh chicken?” Meghan bounded off to ask. It was indeed fresh. “And I’ll have a chocolate malt. Is it malt? Do you put malt flavoring in? Or is it just swirled up ice cream?” Off Meghan galloped again. They only had shakes. But they were really good. Did she want a shake? Meghan’s hands danced hopefully above the register.

  “You really should sell malts too. So superior to shakes. Is there a suggestion box?” The boy on the register next to Meghan took pity and pulled a small slip of paper from some mysterious cubbyhole.

  “There’s a section on our website for comments. Here’s the web address.”

  “Know what else you should have? A comment box. It’s too much work to remember my suggestions and then go to your website. Next time corporate comes for a visit you’ll tell them my suggestion. Okay, Meghan?”

  Meghan, struggling to maintain composure while facing the twin lions of corporate and Elise, asked, with only the smallest tremor, “Beverage, ma’am?”

  “Not a shake, for sure. What else is good?”

  Meghan’s champion, ignoring the elderly couple leaning on the counter in front of him, sidestepped over to take up the gauntlet. “The frosted lemonade is very good. I suggest you try it.” Elise considered doing battle with this gangling Sir Galahad but decided so much chivalry and courage had earned the conquest.

  “Frosted lemonade sounds lovely” —she peered at his name tag— “Braxton. I’ll order dessert later. Can I speak to the manager, please?” Braxton told the terrified Meghan to call the boss, then he stoically finished her order. Russ reached for his billfold but Elise cut him off, shoving a twenty into Braxton’s hand. “Can’t spend it in prison, Braxton.”

  The server was spared answering by the trepidatious arrival of a college-aged man with glasses and a crooked “Manager Jason Mason” badge on his chest. Meghan hovered behind him.

  “Hello, Mr. Mason. I want to commend Meghan and Braxton. They are a credit to your organization and a beacon of light for the future of our nation.”

  The elderly couple snorted in unison and tottered out, chickenless.

  Russ remained silent during the entire exchange, watching her from under lowered brows. He waited while she received her change from Braxton and a poultry-laden food tray from the jittery Meghan, checked to make sure she had everything, and pulled extra napkins from a dispenser. A nod of his head indicated a large corner booth.

  “Russ, we do not need such an enormous table. Let’s take the little one near the front.”

  His hand between her shoulder blades, Russ propelled her to the booth. “Nope. You have enough there to feed a family. And this is more private. Crawl in.”

  Elise had to admit, once she had her dinner off the tray and spread out before her, that he had a point. She looked at it helplessly. “Why did I get so much food? And why didn’t you stop me?”

  He ignored the unjust query. “We’ll eat, then we’ll talk. I’m going to ask a blessing on the food.” Without even asking if she minded he bowed his head and in a low voice said, “Bless this food, dear Father, for the sake of Jesus. Amen.”

  Elise had watched the cheerful brown curls while he prayed. She seldom saw the top of his head, usually about eleven inches above her line of sight. Other than the slightly receding hairline, his hair was still thick and full. He raised blue eyes to her brown ones.

  “What kind of prayer was that? I could barely hear you.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  “And no demands that God be glorified in our conversation? No supplications for the hands that prepared it or the salvation of everyone in our sphere? Including mine?”

  “It was just a blessing, Elise. Now start ingesting your mountain of chicken before it’s all cold and you blame Meghan for that, too.”

  “I would not. I’m demanding, not unfair.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes. Elise didn’t like silence.

  “I like these nugget things. Next time I’ll try the honey roasted BBQ sauce. Is the chicken salad on your sandwich the same as in my cup? It’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Yup.”

  “If I’d known the frosty lemonade stuff was this good I’ve have gotten you one.”

  “Regular lemonade is fine.”

  “Timothy would never ever have eaten here. It doesn’t say ‘cage-free, humanely-raised chickens’ on the door. Not that humane isn’t good. But at this point the chickens are dead. And maybe chickens get used to cages. And having food delivered to them. And not worrying about enemies. Like chicken hawks. Are there such things?”

  “Probably.”

  “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  “You know I talk plenty. You’re filling enough airwaves for two.”

  “I know a rebuff when I hear one. Hey. Look at that! I ate everything.” She slid around the sticky bench, glad she wasn’t wearing shorts. “What do you want for dessert?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Blast. I refuse to feast alone. I’ll have coffee too, and it will be your fault if I waste away to nothing.”

  Ignoring his pointed stare at the detritus of her meal, she swept the trash off the table and dumped it in the nearest garbage can. She returned with coffee moments later. “I don’t know. It looks suspicious. And sort of watery. Still, when a place devotes their skill and energy to chicken and frosted lemonade, it might be too much to ask for topnotch coffee.”

  “Enough chatter, Elise. Time to get down to business. Here is the agenda.” Russ pushed a napkin toward her. She studied it. He’d written with some sort of leaky pen that tore the flimsy fibers and left blotches.

  “Why didn’t you ask me for real paper? I have an entire blank journal in my purse, just waiting for me to pour my heart into.”

  “Read it.”

  “Ugh. So bossy. All right. ‘Police—Why?’ Next. ‘TA –Why?’ TA must refer to Timothy. And last, ‘Go
d—Why not?’ Nice and pithy, Pastor Martinez.”

  A blunt finger pointed at the first blob on the list. Elise opened her mouth to comment on his calloused fingers, so unlike a man of the cloth, or Timothy’s, but thought better of it. She raised hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “Fine. No more chattering. The police got an anonymous tip. I’d been heard not only fighting with Timothy, but threatening to bash his head in.”

  Russ groaned. “Did you really say that?”

  “Thank you for not asking if I really did it. I did say something like that. I’d threatened at various times to smash every one of his body parts, and his bottles of Chateau Lafite-Rothschild 2008 in the reclaimed wood wine rack, and his biodegradable laptop and his Ming Dynasty vase.” She laughed. “He didn’t threaten me back very often, but when I told him I’d pour all his fair trade coffee down the stainless steel warm air drying bidet, he told me he’d stuff me down after it. And flush.”

  Elise’s vision grew dark, then darker, and a moment later she dropped her head to the table and sobbed into her folded arms. Pastor Russell Martinez patted her back and smiled at the curious faces turned their way.

  The storm passed. Elise straightened. “Where did that come from? Do I have human feelings after all?” She wiped her eyes on the agenda napkin. “Uh oh. Sorry. It was the first thing handy and you didn’t offer a pocket handkerchief.”

  “You were too fast. And if I forget the agenda I can just read it on your face.”

  “No! Is ink smeared all over?” Without waiting for an answer she scooted around the bench and flew to the ladies’ room. In less than five minutes she returned to find Russ standing by their booth.

  “What a horrible liar. And you a pastor. But I cleared out the restroom. Everyone in there must have heard me crying at the table and didn’t want to be stuck in a room with a crazy woman and only one exit.”