Burying Leo
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About this ebook
Ingrid always loved to sing. Auditioning for a summer job after high school shattered her dreams. She fled Germany for Detroit where she married with the hopes of starting a family. When hope crumbled, she attempts to sing again. Will singing bring the life Ingrid always desired, or will her mutilated soul lose her everything?
Helga Gruendler-Schierloh
Helga Gruendler-Schierloh is a bilingual writer with a degree in journalism and graduate credits in linguistics. During her childhood years in southern Germany, a much loved family friend introduced her to the magical allure of literature. Mesmerized with language in general, Helga spent time in London to enhance her English language skills. Now living in the United States, she makes her home in Detroit, Michigan. Always a dreamer who spent countless hours roaming the Bavarian countryside, gathering flowers and studying cloud formations, Helga eagerly embraced an imaginary world. Deeply concerned with what makes people tick, she aims at writing “what you know”—even in her fiction stories. Her short stories, essays, articles, and poetry have been published in the USA, Canada, and the United Kingdom. One of Helga’s personal favorites, The Wanderer, won first place in one of Southern Pacific Review’s annual short story contests.
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Burying Leo - Helga Gruendler-Schierloh
Burying Leo
Helga Gruendler-Schierloh
Burying Leo
Copyright © 2017 Helga Gruendler-Schierloh
Rights reserved.
Cover by JosDCreations
JosDCreations.com
ISBN-10: 1-941087-38-8
ISBN-13: 978-1-941087-38-1
Laurel Highlands Publishing
Mount Pleasant, PA
USA
LaurelHighlandsPublishing.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to my family
who has been inadvertently affected
by my stubborn desire to write.
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I want to express my heartfelt appreciation to Veronica Moore, Fiction Editor for Laurel Highlands Publishing, whose knowledgeable guidance and professional know-how helped to turn Burying Leo
into a publishable manuscript.
I also value everyone who influenced the development of this novel, on purpose or unintentionally, with concrete information, memorable tidbits, or simply by believing in me.
An extra big THANK YOU goes to my very good friend, Heidi Koestner, who never wavered in supporting me on my literary journey, and more than once inspired me to keep going.
Table of Contents
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
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
About the Author
Chapter One
Her right hand resting on the heavy brass handle, Ingrid Bassen shook her head and sighed. Flirting with a man whose large face, bulging nose, and heavy limbs were too big even for his immense body was certainly not her idea of spending the eve of her wedding anniversary. Then, taking a deep breath, she opened the door and strolled into the hazy semi-darkness of the crowded interior only too aware of her role as a bargaining chip.
Drinks in hand, exquisitely dressed business people mingled with a colorful variety of stylishly coiffed fun-seekers—deep in conversation, laughing, or scanning their surroundings in search of a catch-of-the-day. For anyone swelling with business or social ambitions, the Candlelight Trap was the perfect place to be. The small, stuffy tavern was known as a haven for the high rollers pushing the economic wheel of Oakland County, Michigan.
Blinking away the twirling, thick, gray smoke, Ingrid took a couple of deep breaths before pushing herself into the hovering odors of stale tobacco, booze, and sweat. After her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, she finally spotted her husband.
Leaning against the far corner of the spacious bar counter, a drink in his right hand, Joe Bassen seemed to be in deep conversation with the major shareholder of the prestigious Mellamet Bank.
Ingrid knew her husband didn’t really care much for John Winslow, but he needed the banker’s money and had done a lot of business with him over the past five years. About to launch his biggest construction project to date, the development of a strip of Detroit riverfront into a high-class hotel with an attached mini mall, Joe was keener than ever before to cultivate his financial relationships.
And I’m to be extra bait, Ingrid thought bitterly, biting down on her lower lip. Shaking back her long, black hair, she still reeled from the comment her husband had made earlier to her: Be a nice girl, and use all your cunning to fish the money out of good old John’s pocket.
She wished she had the guts to offend the banker, but Ingrid knew she would never have the nerve to destroy Joe’s primary source of funding, and, right now, that made her feel depressed.
Fourteen years of marriage, she thought wistfully, that’s a long time—and yet, sometimes, it seems just like yesterday since I fled into a relationship I once considered my deliverance.
She cherished all the special days in her life. The routine and predictability of holidays and anniversaries made her feel safe, and kept her sane. As long as the clock kept on ticking, and the hours counted down toward one of the many perennial celebrations, Ingrid knew there was still time to heal and hope. Riding on the solid back of a tightly compressed past, she was determined to trot in the direction of a destiny she envisioned for herself.
Yeah, the future, she thought, I wonder what it holds in store for me.
Just then, she noticed her husband’s gesticulating. Holding up his drink, he waved her on to the bar. As soon as she approached, John Winslow gazed at her. His slightly drooping, chunky, square jaw flattened inward as his round face broke into a wide, beaming smile. Fingering the knot on his tie with his left hand, he held out his large, hairy right.
Mrs. Bassen,
he boomed, I’m so delighted to see you again. It’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure to look into your pretty baby blues.
Hesitantly, questioning his sincerity, Ingrid shook hands with him. But when she tried to pull back, the man held on. Mrs. Bassen, or may I call you Ingrid? I believe when we met before, you allowed me to call you by your first name—if I remember correctly?
Oh, yes, you do remember correctly,
Ingrid mimicked him, and for the moment, she gave up on retrieving her captured hand.
He beamed at her. You sound adorable when you talk. I just love your accent.
Then, squeezing her fingers even harder, he asked, Would you like a drink?
Ingrid nodded. I’ll have a Manhattan.
She pulled herself up onto the bar stool next to him and noticed that Joe disappeared. Looking about the room, she spotted him standing near the exit door, talking to three dark-suited men of retirement age.
The banker followed her glances. Oh, never mind that husband of yours. He has specific orders from me to explain to those fellows over there why he wants so much money from us.
Ingrid raised her eyebrows. Those men…?
Are officers of our bank. I brought them along to meet Joe in person. He’s got a way with people, and I’m sure he’ll convince them of the importance of his latest venture.
Cheers.
Ingrid picked up her drink, awkwardly clasping the glass with her five available fingers. So, let’s hope that new riverside project is going to be successful.
I’ll drink to that.
Winslow chuckled close to her ear. Reaching for his whisky, he released his grip on her, and she was in charge of her right hand again.
Now, tell me about you.
The banker rested his big elbows on the polished back rail of her stool. I mean about you—yourself—not Bassen Inc.
Tipping her glass back and forth, Ingrid watched the ice cubes shift and break apart before whispering, Hmm, I don’t know if there’s any Ingrid left—apart from Bassen Inc.
Good Lord, that sounds pathetic—another drink?
Sure.
She winked at him. Make it a double, it’ll strengthen my accent. Whenever I drink, my accent gets worse, or better, depending on how you look at it. Anyway, it gets thicker—and then, when my accent increases, my English gets fuzzy.
That ought to be interesting.
The banker took the drink from the bartender and set it down in front of Ingrid.
Thank you, Mr. Winslow,
she whispered.
He sighed. Oh, please, call me John; ‘Mr. Winslow’ makes me feel old.
All right, John, here’s to you.
Ingrid lifted her glass in a toast. And now, why don’t you tell me about yourself, possibly the side of you that isn’t owned by the bank?
She knew she didn’t have to repeat her question. It was well known that John Winslow was a man of multiple interests and loved to talk about himself as well as his many activities in- and outside of Mellamet Bank.
Propping both her arms up on the counter, she rested her chin on her fists as she resigned herself to his long dissertation about prize-winning tea roses, triumphs on the golf greens across the Midwest, power meetings of the financial greats of Michigan, his oldest son’s acceptance to West Point, and his daughter’s artistic ability. He even mentioned his wife, Marianne, and her many noble volunteer and social activities among the distinguished senior citizens of Oakland County. That didn’t seem to deter him from gradually inching closer to Ingrid, caressing her nose with a steady stream of Old Spice seeping from his clothing.
Hearing the mellow voice of a female vocalist rising in the background, Ingrid kept her gaze fastened on the man’s pudgy face while listening to the soothing tunes of a love song.
John Winslow bent toward her. Are you there?
Oh, yes,
Ingrid whispered, I’m here all right. It’s just, the singer…
She turned to look at the petite redhead at the mike, and Winslow followed her glance.
Yeah,
he said, she’s attractive, a little fragile maybe.
Ingrid swirled her drink. I really like her voice. There’s nothing fragile about that voice. It’s strong and emotional with incredible delivery and phrasing. She’s very good.
The banker leaned closer. You seem to know a lot about that stuff. Do you sing?
Not anymore.
Ingrid tightened the grip on her glass until her knuckles stood out. It hurts too much.
Your throat?
No, my heart.
The banker’s radiant smile vanished into a puzzled stare and, for a moment, he looked like a startled child. He blinked a couple of times, and then his expression turned serious. Anything I could do about that? I’d like to help.
I don’t think so,
Ingrid muttered, glancing at her drink, not right now anyway. Who knows, there might come a time.
Just let me know when.
Sincere concern shimmering in his faded, slightly watery eyes of indefinable coloration, Winslow shifted away, restoring a respectable distance to her.
A cheerful chuckle shredded the solemnity of the moment and Joe Bassen’s unruly dark mane appeared between them. Missing me? John, your partners are great. They understood right from the start that we need to develop the riverfront to keep Detroit alive and well. Now, that’s progressive.
Winslow grimaced. Bassen, I just knew you’d weasel your way into our cash supply.
Joe squeezed himself into the small space on Ingrid’s left, ordered a Jack Daniel’s with water, and then lifted his glass. Here’s to both of you. Sorry that I neglected you so long.
That’s quite all right.
Ingrid flashed a dazzling smile. John here and I had a lot to talk about. He’s been brilliant company. Just imagine, he was co-chairman at the Strauss Ball in Cobo Hall last year. Isn’t that great?
Winslow’s eyes lit up. This is quite a young lady here, you know.
He gave Ingrid a hefty pat on the back.
Gasping for air, she gripped the edge of the bar counter. Obviously unaware of the painful impact of his friendly gesture, the banker turned to wave goodbye to his colleagues.
Wow, Honey,
Joe whispered into Ingrid’s ear, this guy’s really hitting on you.
Nodding, she reached for his right hand. Then, taking up her conversation with John Winslow again, she calmly bent Joe’s thumb backward. Ignoring his suppressed scream, she grinned at him. And you know what else John does? He cultivates roses, just like my dad.
There was a moment of awkward silence before Winslow asked in a sad baritone, Mrs. Bassen, did you have to compare me to your father?
Ingrid realized instantly that she had chilled her admirer’s heated glow. A part of her had probably aimed at doing it, but her business sense now rang a loud alarm. Her mind spinning, she watched Joe’s stunned expression change into an angry scowl. The banker, his broad back as rigid as a statue’s, stared quietly into his empty glass.
Although concerned about endangering her husband’s prime corporate piggybank, Ingrid was even more uncomfortable with hurting Winslow’s feelings. She leaned forward and rested her slim fingers on the man’s bulky wrist.
But, John,
she cooed, I meant it as a compliment. I think the world of my father.
The banker turned a pale, stiff face toward her, but a second later, his features brightened and relaxed into a warm smile. All right, I will take it as a compliment. Sometimes, I act like a fool and, as everyone knows, there’s no fool like an old fool. So, don’t let it bother you, Mrs. Bassen, I really enjoyed talking to you tonight.
He offered Ingrid his right hand. When she hesitated to take it, the large man rose, drew himself up to his full height and gave her a quick bear hug.
Then, he looked at Joe. I had a lovely evening, thanks to your wife.
He turned back to Ingrid. I hope we’ll be friends for a long time.
Only if you stop calling me Mrs. Bassen.
She winked at him. It makes me feel as if we’re strangers all over again.
Winslow’s somber expression dissolved into a spider’s web of little lines, and through this network of a multitude of dancing wrinkles, his entire face lit up.
Of course.
He chuckled. As you know, it’s supposed to be hard to teach new tricks to an old dog.
Old dog?
Ingrid scrutinized him. Was he mocking her, possibly trying to pay her back for her careless comment?
But, as she searched his eyes for even the slightest trace of sarcasm or resentment, she was pleasantly surprised to see only kindness and goodwill reflecting off his pale irises. Relieved, she gave him a warm smile.
As she watched him walk heavy-footed toward the exit of the bar, she realized that her relationship with him had just undergone a rebirth. Acting like a perfect gentleman, he had released her from any further obligation to fake a flirtatious interest in him. Reaching out to her with tolerance and acceptance, John Winslow had opened the door for a friendship that might come in handy someday.
Did you hear that one yet?
She heard her husband’s voice rise to the piercing high pitch he usually reserved for expressing extreme excitement or profound amusement.
Stretching his long torso across the entire width of the wooden counter top separating him from the buxom bartender, Joe kept right on bombarding the sexy blonde with his standard repertoire of jokes. Obviously gunning for a generous tip for a good sport
performance, the voluptuous young girl chuckled obediently. Even while serving other customers, she didn’t miss out on rewarding Joe’s bungled punch lines with a well-timed and enthusiastic response.
Oh-me-gosh, that’s, like, so funny,
she now shrieked, that is just so, well, like, so absolutely hilarious.
Yawning, Ingrid turned her attention back to the bandstand. Letting another tender love song drift toward its mellow ending, the frail vocalist bowed and threw kisses to the audience. Then, turning abruptly, she rushed off the podium, her short red curls cheerfully bouncing and glistening in the subdued overhead lighting.
The lead guitarist, a trim young man with disheveled dark hair curling down his back, stepped behind the mike. Picking and stroking, he gradually coaxed his strings into a gentle rendering of, "There are many temptations to lead you astray…"
My kind of music, Ingrid thought wistfully. As she began to hum along, the musician looked straight at her. His brooding gaze locking her in, he played on, "…and if you’ll allow me, I’ll show you the way."
The melody catching in her throat, Ingrid felt a sudden urge to reach out and touch him, join him—until she remembered where she was and who she was.
"Fever! the guitarist belted out,
I’m burning up with a fever."
Rapidly picking up the beat, he passionately hammered his instrument into a crazed crescendo before allowing the strings to relax into a wailing sound. "My body’s shaking with chills as my temperature rapidly rises, he cried, making his voice vibrate for emphasis,
and I begin to realize, survival demands compromises."
I certainly know about that, Ingrid thought. I know way too much about compromises.
Curling her long, slender fingers into tightly clenched fists, she remembered John Winslow’s, I’d like to help,
and felt euphoric.
Maybe there was still hope for her after all. Maybe one day, somehow, she would find a way out of her confusing maze of suppressed emotional turmoil, stale suburban domesticity, and the barren routine of often distasteful business dealings.
An impulsive smirk tearing at the corners of her mouth, she clenched her teeth to stop herself from giggling. She picked up her glass.
Muttering under her breath, Here’s to you, Ingrid Mellner,
she drained the remnants of her drink.
The ice had melted. The Manhattan tasted warm and mellow.
Chapter Two
Since John Winslow gave Joe a ride to the bar, the Bassens drove home together. Joe decided to take the wheel, and as they pulled out of the Candlelight Trap’s dimly lighted parking lot, it started to rain.
Ingrid leaned back against the leather headrest and watched the sprinkling arrival of sporadically spaced raindrops. One by one, following each other at an ever faster speed, the globs of moisture sprung against the windshield and splattered across the glass until they succumbed to the rubbery ruthlessness of the relentless efficiency of the wipers.
Swish, swoosh, another drop flattened and smacked aside. Its remnants joined one of the many narrow rivulets that spiraled down the misty pane before disappearing into the dark unknown of the car’s hood.
Ingrid liked rain. Cleansing, cooling, restoring, as well as sometimes destructive, it was there one second, gone the next—so much like time, like life.
What are you thinking about?
Joe’s voice, hoarse from talking so much, broke into her daydreaming.
When she looked at him, he proceeded to rub his thumbnail along her hairline. Wow, Honey, you sure had John Winslow eating out of your hand tonight.
Ingrid giggled. Yes, but at the end, he almost choked on that comparison to my father.
No kidding,
Joe said. For a moment there, I thought, oh damn, there goes my loan, and all because my wife has to turn one of her chief admirers into Dad. You really wormed your way out of that one.
When her husband swung into the left lane to turn onto Quarton Road, Ingrid pulled on his sleeve. No, don’t, go straight.
Straight?
Yessir.
Ingrid smiled. I’m abducting you. Just follow my directions.
After weaving in and out of quiet neighborhood streets for a while, they finally arrived in front of their house. A sheepish look on his face, Joe stopped the car. What the hell…?
Don’t ask; don’t wonder!
Ingrid jumped out of the vehicle. Just come with me.
She hurried down the narrow brick path toward the intricately carved front door of their revamped eighteenth century colonial, waving Joe on to follow her.
Upstairs, she opened the door to a bedroom bathed in soft pink lighting. A bulky ice bucket with a bottle of champagne stuck in a heap of glistening cubes gleamed on the dresser like a trophy. A scraggly bouquet of dried wildflowers, dangling from a hook fastened on the window sill, sent off an aromatic message of anticipation.
What the hell?
Joe began again.
Ingrid flung her arms around his waist and whispered, I’ve been very busy this afternoon. Happy Anniversary.
Joe walked her in tiny dance steps over to the bed and tumbled with her onto the large cornflowers of the down bedspread only to jump up again.
Damn,
he shouted, something’s poking me.
Pulling the latest edition of Playboy from the covers, he exploded with laughter. You know, Winslow’s right. You are really something.
I’ll leave you in charge of opening the champagne,
Ingrid whispered, while I’m dressing for the occasion.
She rose from the bed.
Wait a minute,
Joe protested. Our anniversary isn’t until tomorrow.
I know, and that’s in about five minutes.
Joe glanced at his Rolex. You’re right.
He loosened the cork and waited for the customary pop. He was about to fill the two chilled crystal glasses when the alarm clock with the bright rose-blossom face chirped from the large oak dresser to announce midnight.
You really thought of everything.
Joe’s voice resonated with amusement as he watched Ingrid rush past him into the bathroom.
When she reappeared a few minutes later, wearing nothing but a skimpy, black lace teddy, he gawked at her. Then, whistling through his teeth, he handed her some champagne.
You look delicious,
he said, pretending to take a bite out of her.
Ingrid leaned into him. To fourteen long years.
Of success,
Joe added.
They drank up and set the empty glasses on the dresser before Joe pulled Ingrid once again onto the bed with him.
Happy Anniversary, Sweetheart,
he whispered, kissing the tip of her nose. It was a good meeting tonight. You certainly wrapped Winslow around your little finger. That should be of great help in getting a loan.
I hope so.
Ingrid pushed herself even closer to him. But now, let’s make a baby.
You mean love, don’t you?
I mean a baby,
she whispered, as sort of an anniversary present, please?
In an instant, her husband’s face took on a somber expression and—like a burnt child recoiling from a hot stove—he withdrew his hand from her nipple.
Let’s not get into that again,
he moaned, not even trying to hide his disappointment. I thought we’d put this issue to rest. We are busy and successful, and we thoroughly enjoy being busy and successful. Who in the world would want a baby at a time like this?
I do,
Ingrid murmured against his ear.
Joe turned away. Oh, come off it, will you? Let’s just enjoy each other tonight.
Just kidding.
Ingrid buried her face in the graying hair on his chest. Giggling at the soft fuzz tickling her nose, she sighed. All right then, let’s make love.
That’s my girl.
Joe peeled off the lace teddy to massage Ingrid’s body with his palms. Drawing tiny wet circles with the tip of his tongue, he moved across the rising mounts of her breasts to her belly button before slipping down to linger in the dark triangle of her crotch.
When her pleasure sighs turned to impatient whimpers, he bolted upwards. You’re still on the pill, aren’t you?
Ingrid quickly closed her eyes to shut out the dreaded question. Why in the world did he have to ask that now?
Four years after becoming his wife, she had approached Joe about wanting a child of her own. With a shocked look in his eyes, he had made it quite clear that the son and daughter from his first marriage were all the kids he needed—and he wasn’t eager to start over. At first, Ingrid demurred. But her intense longing for a child remained. Growing increasingly resentful of her husband’s indifference to her wishes, she eventually rebelled. When she told him about nine years into the marriage that she was pregnant, he had thrown a fit and refused to touch her for weeks. That pregnancy had ended in a miscarriage and silenced any baby talk—until tonight.
Hey, you, please, look at me,
Joe now pleaded, or at least give me an answer.
Feeling the spurts of his hot breath on her face, Ingrid squeezed her eyes shut even tighter and remained silent.
Joe pushed away from her. Then, rolling off the bed, he grumbled, Dammit, Hon’, that’s really unfair. You know what that makes you?
Stirring a little, Ingrid whispered, You just don’t understand. I want to have a baby more than anything else in the world, more than being busy and successful.
Ignoring her plea, Joe paced back and forth in front of the bed. I will tell you what that makes you. It makes you a liar and a cheat.
Ingrid opened her eyes just in time to see him gather up his clothes and walk out. He slammed the door shut behind him with such force that the bouquet of dried daisies dropped to the floor, breaking apart and scattering.
A few minutes later, she heard an engine start up and the crunching noise of car tires retreating through the gravel patch at the end of the driveway.
Her right hand on her husband’s vacant pillow, she stared up at the ceiling to watch the dance of bizarre shadows created by the night light’s flickering bulb. In rhythmic silence, they moved to a tune only they could hear, reminding Ingrid of the day she had first met Joe.
*
The melodic waves of a waltz poured from the loudspeakers of Skate Paradise, a popular neighborhood roller rink. Trying to get away from an oncoming speeder, Ingrid Mellner gripped the