The Lyre and the Lambs Read online

  Title Page

  The Lyre

  and the

  Lambs

  a novel

  SYdney Avey

  Durham, NC

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2017 Sydney Avey

  The Lyre and the Lambs

  Sydney Avey

  [email protected]

  Published 2014 by HopeSprings Books

  Published 2017, by Torchflame Books

  an Imprint of Light Messages

  www.lightmessages.com

  Durham, NC 27713 USA

  SAN: 920-9298

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-61153-266-1

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without the prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Scripture quoted by permission. The Holy Bible, English Standard Version (ESV) is adapted from the Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the U.S.A. All rights reserved.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Part I—Kindred Hearts

  A Sudden Passing

  Pockets Full of Change

  First Comes Love

  Love’s Price

  Give Me Space

  Arrivals and Departures

  Christmas

  Band of Bullies

  Getting the Message

  Tending the Lambs

  Rhythm and Blues

  Signs and Wonders

  Three Musketeers

  PART II—The Apple of Discord

  Changing Times

  Taking Charge

  Best Laid Plans

  New Life

  Missing

  Poor Excuses

  Interlopers

  Lifelines

  Kaleidoscope

  Mix and Mingle

  The Clouds Gather

  Trouble

  PART III—Manu Forti

  A Crime

  Missing

  To the Hills

  Life Goes On

  A Birth

  It’s a Girl

  Headlines

  Pressing News

  A Waiting Game

  A Confession

  The Truth

  In Memoriam

  Mike and Laura

  David and Sophie

  A Honeymoon

  Danny and Ursula

  A Picnic

  About the Author

  If You Liked The Lyre and the Lambs

  Dedication

  To the men in my family, Robert, Joel, and Devin, and to my grandson Tristan, with thanks to all for your wisdom and humor.

  I will incline my ear to a proverb;

  I will solve my riddle to the music of the lyre.

  Psalm 49:4 (ESV)

  Acknowledgements

  Acknowledgements

  I am blessed to have family and friends who support me by reading early manuscripts with a critical eye and consulting in areas of their expertise to make sure the telling details are accurate. Thank you to April Trabucco, Virginia Gustafson, Etty Garber, Cheryl von Drehle and Father Doug Weiss for the notes you gave me on story development. Special thanks my consultants: Father Doug Weiss educated me about Anglican politics; Reverend James von Drehle shared his experiences as a chaplain in a psychiatric hospital; Joel Avey served as my weapons consultant; and Jeff Trabucco consulted on the technical and marketing aspects of the fictional product my characters invented in a garage and turned into a manufacturing operation at an exciting time in history when enterprise was part of the American Dream. I also want to thank my community of Groveland, California, that is so hospitable to writers, and all the readers who have encouraged me to write this sequel to The Sheep Walker’s Daughter. Finally, thanks to first edition publisher Lynellen Perry at HopeSprings Books, who worked to promote realistic Christian fiction, and to the second edition publishers at Torchflame Books who champion meaningful books.

  Part I—Kindred Hearts

  PART I

  Kindred Hearts

  A Sudden Passing

  A Sudden Passing

  Fall 1963

  On the tenth anniversary of my mother’s death, my friend Laura and I discovered her husband Fred hanging from a Western Sycamore over the creek that runs behind our houses. If Laura had registered Goldie’s yips coming through the back porch screen, she would have known something was wrong. Fred always took Goldie with him on his early morning walks. Not today.

  After showering and dressing, Laura had returned to the bedroom to make up the bed and found Fred’s note tucked under her pillow. Her desperate phone call brought me screeching through red lights just after dawn to reach my old neighborhood where I found her weeping and shaking at her front door.

  Since I had returned to Los Altos a year ago, Laura and I had met for lunch a few times, sometimes at restaurants, sometimes at my apartment, but this was the first time I had been past her front door. I followed her through the house out to the patio. We walked along the deer trail until we spotted Fred’s body hanging from a low branch, toes trailing in the bubbling creek water.

  R

  I worry a hard knot in the muscle of my arm while I tell my story to the police. My arm has been sore ever since I gripped Laura’s shoulder with enough force to spin her around and propel her back to the house. I had left her sitting in her easy chair, face in hands, rocking and sobbing while I went to make phone calls, first to the mortuary, then to the police.

  Now, investigators down at the creek are cutting a section of thick sisal away from the tree branch to release it from its gruesome weight. The gurney squeaks and groans as paramedics push it up the grassy hill leading back from Permanente Creek. Its wheels thud against exposed tree roots that snake near the surface of the over-watered lawn. I lock eyes with the police officer who blocks my view of the corpse. At the same time, I try to catch what Laura is telling the detective. Pretty Laura, dressed for Saturday morning errands in a flower-print sheath, French twist pinned in place as effortlessly as the ease with which she has lived her life. So it appears, but it’s an illusion.

  R

  When my mother died, I had the mortician’s phone number written on a list by the telephone. Involving the police, however, is a new step in this sad process. My mother died in her sleep, in the house we shared up the street, a bungalow that burned down ten years ago. The difference is, her death was anticipated. Leora gave out. Fred gave up.

  Even now, the image of Fred’s body, head hanging, shoulders slumped, pant legs rolled up to his calves to bare the shocking whiteness of his legs and feet, glues itself in my brain. Why did Fred take off his shoes before he stepped up on a stool brought down from the garage, stuck his head through a looped rope knotted to a tree branch, and kicked the stool away? His shoes lined up under the tree, socks neatly folded inside, stick in my memory like a perfectly exposed photograph gum-cornered into a picture album.

  Blessedly, Fred chose to face the creek bank opposite the house when he swung his 210-pound frame out over the water. Laura was spared having to look into the purple blo
at that was once a pleasingly boyish face.

  It was I who followed the police down to the creek bank and identified the body. Now Laura stands in the backyard, one hand splayed across her chest as if she is trying to hold her heart in place, the other hand rubbing her left temple.

  “Fred wasn’t doing well. He was very depressed. IBM was talking to him about taking an early retirement, and he seemed to be adjusting to the idea. He’s always fought so hard to, to...”

  The two officers close ranks to form a tight conversational circle as the paramedics wheel Fred’s body up the path around the side of the house. The ambulance, motor running and lights flashing, has attracted the attention of the neighbors. Closing his notebook, the detective asks to see the note Fred left. Laura pulls it from her pocket and offers it up. The detective reads the note and passes it to the officer.

  “Alright then, that will do it I think.” The officer refolds the note and hands it back to Laura.

  “Ma’am, we are sorry for your loss. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions, but I don’t think that’s likely. Is there anything we can do for you before we go?”

  The detective shifts his body slightly to shield Laura from the eyes of the crowd drifting closer to get a better view. The sun catches the gold of his wedding ring and I say a silent prayer of thanks for a man who understands that Laura’s adrenalin is about to run out. I put my arm around her shoulder and lead her back into the house.

  R

  If I’ve learned one thing, it’s not to let a group of neighbors congregate for too long. They will make up their own stories to explain what they think they are seeing.

  “Detective...I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Ramos, Manuel Ramos.”

  “Detective Ramos, would you walk out front with me while I talk to the neighbors?”

  The detective leads the way. He raises his hand as he joins the main circle of concerned citizens gathered around Gunther, the self-appointed neighborhood spokesperson. Young Lukas, who has been bicycling in circles in front of the house, pulls up alongside his father.

  “Go get your mother,” Gunther tells the boy. An old tug in my gut draws the air from my lungs. Fat angry flies buzz in my head. I wave a hand in front of my face to chase away the invisible pests. This gesture must look strange, so I pull my hand to my brow as if I were shielding my eyes from the sun. The detective takes charge.

  “Folks, I know you are concerned about what has happened here, but please clear the street so the ambulance can move out.”

  There is really no place for them to go. Los Altos doesn’t believe in sidewalks. The crowd moves onto Laura’s asphalt driveway. As the ambulance rolls slowly up the street, all eyes are on me now. I take a deep breath and pull my hands together in prayer position. Will my shoulder-to-shoulder stance with Detective Ramos lend me credibility with my former neighbors?

  When I lost my bungalow to a fire caused by bad wiring, I deeded the lot to my daughter, Valerie. She cleared it then let the weeds grow and did nothing to abate rumors that she planned to build some sort of group home. That was not her plan, but as her grand design takes shape, they aren’t any happier.

  “Hello Gunther.” I compose my face into a sad smile, take a step backward, and extend my gaze out over the crowd. “There has been an unfortunate accident. This morning, Laura found Fred’s body down by the creek. We really don’t know what happened. All we know is that he died early this morning.”

  Gunther’s eyeballs look like they are going to pop out of his head. He erupts in a righteous torrent of words.

  “Accident? That was no accident! I saw the paramedics cut Fred down from a tree! He was hanging from that tree over the creek!”

  Lukas has not budged from his father’s side. His mouth drops open.

  Detective Ramos steps up in front of Gunther and aims his forefinger at the man’s heaving chest.

  “Calm yourself, sir.” Gunther shuts up and Ramos takes over. “Folks, we have a grieving widow inside. From what I’ve seen here today, this will most likely be ruled a sudden death. I suggest you be respectful and all go home now.”

  This is not what I would have said, but thankfully the crowd begins to disperse. Only Laura’s next-door neighbor Ivy hangs back.

  “Dolores, I know that Laura has a good friend in you, and that you will stay with her as long as she needs you.” Her kindness works like cool water on the indignant words still burning in my heart. “Please know that I’m here too, and I’d like to help in any way I can.”

  Grateful words tumble from my mouth. “Would you please call Father Mike?”

  R

  Back inside, I make two cups of chamomile tea and sit down with Laura at the kitchen table. She slumps in a chair, staring at Fred’s note. Outside, Goldie’s whine takes on a howling quality. I unlatch the screen door and walk out on the lawn to free the dog. Goldie bounds through the open door ahead of me and plants her chin on Laura’s knees. Laura bends over and buries her face in her dog’s soft fur.

  Once Goldie is settled at Laura’s feet, Laura slips Fred’s note across the table to me. I unfold the lined piece of memo paper and read Fred’s last words, his simple goodbye:

  Laura, I’m sorry to hurt you this way. I’ve tried so hard, but every day is torture and I can’t do it anymore. I love you. That’s all.

  I am so acquainted with this kind of grief that I don’t ask questions. Not that anyone in my family ever committed suicide, but my parents kept secrets and left their daughters to sort it all out. Fred cloaked his family life in mystery, leaving people to wonder why no one except his three poker buddies were ever invited inside the house, why warm-hearted Laura remained childless, what attracted her to such a strange man.

  Laura and I sit in silence at her kitchen table. She stares down at Goldie and slowly shakes her head.

  “You know, Dee, I almost feel relief.” Raising her face to mine, she looks at me through swollen, tear-filled eyes. “Isn’t that awful?”

  “It’s not awful, Laura, it’s honest. There is no way on God’s green Earth that any of this is your fault. You did everything possible to make a good life for Fred.”

  “I tried so hard. What am I going to do now? Fred and I were married for twenty-three years.”

  I put my hand on top of hers and stroke her hand. My fingers run lightly across her wedding rings as if they are fresh wounds I wish I could heal.

  At a quiet tap on the front screen door, Goldie raises an ear, but the normally vigilant dog doesn’t seem alarmed. Laura pulls her hand back from mine, touches her hair, and twists around in her seat. A familiar figure pushes through the screen. Laura rises from the table, barely taking a step before she finds herself enfolded in the burly arms of Father Mike.

  It’s as if the sun that rose this morning now lights and warms Laura’s kitchen. Father Mike has had that effect on me since the day he showed up on my own front porch, right after Leora died. He helped me make sense of the way Leora lived and sort out the mystery of why she hid from me the existence of my twin sister Alaya. Why then does my stomach do an unpleasant flip-flop as I watch him embrace Laura, who needs his comfort so much? Father Mike shoots me a sympathetic look and then ushers Laura into the living room where the two of them sit close together and talk in hushed tones. It is pretty clear to me that this is not the first time he has been in her house.

  Pockets Full of Change

  Pockets Full of Change

  I walk on unsteady legs into the post office to pick up my mail. Laura tried to talk me out of staying with her for a few days, but I know a thing or two about being in a house alone with the specter of the departed. Although I pried open the window to allow my mother’s soul to fly home, her presence was still evident in the house for days, in a whiff of the Estee Lauder powder she used to wear, or the snatches of Tangerine she used to hum. My skin would detect a change in the air when I walked out to the screened porch where she used to feed her dogs. Once, I swear, I saw her ben
ding over to dump a can of Friskies into the dog dish, but of course there was no dog dish. The dogs had been gone for years. And then, she was gone too. And Laura is right. It was a relief. I want to be with Laura now, to help her let Fred go.

  Having the mail delivered to a post office box seemed like the best choice when Roger and I moved back to Los Altos. We still can’t figure out where we want to live, so for now home is a rental apartment on Los Altos Avenue.

  “Good morning Mrs. Russell! I just put another letter from Spain in your box.” Frank Lee, the postmaster, does not know the meaning of the word discretion.

  Were I a secret member of a seditious cell group plotting to fund Basque separatists, it would quickly become the topic of conversation at every Bridge game in town. Fortunately, not many people are aware of the political unrest in that part of the world.

  “Had a pretty stamp on it too, Dee. I haven’t seen one like that before.”

  “I’ll cut it out and save it for you, Frank.”

  Frank is a stamp collector. The only thing I collect is past lives, although they are converging rapidly. The letter from Spain will be from Alaya, who still lives in Navarre--Navarra I call it when I visit her.

  I met my twin sister for the first time in Bakersfield when we were forty-seven years old. My daughter Valerie was the one who finagled a way to introduce her mother to her aunt. It was Valerie who figured out Leora’s deception when she met Alaya by chance in a publishing house in Barcelona. Of course, I know now there is no such thing as chance. Father Mike taught me about providence. When I was finally ready to face the truth, God provided the answers.

  Alaya and I have spent the last eight years getting to know each other. She comes here every two years, usually with her husband Elazar or one of their twin boys. The years she doesn’t come, I go visit her at Moragarena, our family home.

  I never knew I had a family home until the day I met Alaya. The short story is that my mother and father split up when we were babies. Alonso took Alaya back to his homeland and Leora went on the road with me. My mother never bothered to tell me about this episode in her life, or about her big Greek family in New York, so it came as quite a shock to discover I had people all over the place. It has taken years to learn how to forgive, but now that I have what I thought I always wanted, I’m discovering that a feast of family can be a plate of problems.