Too Much at Stake (14 page)

Deb pulled the Prius into the dirt parking lot at the foot of the ski hill. "Well, what's it going to be for you tonight, Pat? Fish boil or salad?" Deb teased, her mind going first to the subject of food.

"Fish boil?" Bruno asked incredulously. "I only eat red meat. What's this about a fish boil?"

"Oh, Bruno, you haven't truly become a part of this place until you experience a real northern Wisconsin fish boil. It's a Tent specialty every Friday night, all summer long," Pat instructed. "Imagine: potatoes, onions, and white-fish, boiled all together in one pot. M-m-m!"

"I prefer
chipa guazu
myself," Bruno said with a smile. "You'll have to come to Paraguay to try it. I'd just like to see you both find out for once what real food tastes like."

Deb smiled. Bruno managed to sound charming even when he was complaining about something.

They all got out of the car and walked to the food tent, drawn by the smell of grilled burgers. The food tent was lined on the right by a long red counter that held condiments. Behind the counter were the beer spouts, coolers with sodas, rows of candy, and the grill. To the left of the counter was a large sand pit filled with picnic tables, and farther to the left was a counter containing the Big Top gift shop, where sweatshirts and CDs could be purchased.

Deb and Pat ordered chicken salad and the local favorite brew, Leinenkugel's beer, which everyone referred to as "Leinie's." They sat down to eat at one of the picnic tables under the food tent, where the aroma of boiled fish permeated the air.

"M-m-m, this is great," Deb said to Pat. "There is just something to be said for eating outside."

"There is something to be said for someone else cooking!" Pat joked, taking a big bite of her salad.

"There's something to be said for being able to have something that's not chicken," Bruno said, smiling as he took a large bite of his hamburger.

"Yeah," Eric agreed. "Bruno can get the 'authentic northern Wisconsin experience' some other time."

"Race you up the hill later!" Deb teased to Pat, as she quickly finished her salad.

"Sorry, but you'll have to wait till next time," Pat replied. "I didn't wear my running shoes tonight."

Electricity was in the air, and Deb picked up on it as she looked around the crowd and recognized the faces of so many friends and neighbors. It was a large crowd, and everyone seemed excited to come together for the start of a new season. It was like a big family reunion. Nancy, the Lutheran pastor from Washburn, was selling raffle tickets. Nancy was glad-handing, back-patting, and hugging nearly everyone she saw.

Deb's ears perked up as she caught part of a conversation behind her. "Can you believe it was there the whole winter without being found? And they still don't know who did it."

"Yeah, the murderer could be here tonight," another voice piped in. "I heard the hand fell right off the arm; it was so rotten."

Pat was finishing up the last bites of her chicken salad. It suddenly didn't taste very good.
What is wrong with these people?
she thought. Carl approached their table with a big smile. He gave Deb a bear hug and then turned to Pat.

"So good to see you two," he said. "Thanks for coming. How about joining us in the Spirit Cottage before the show? The board is having a little reception for the band and staff before the show goes on to kick off the new season."

Deb felt honored to be asked to such an intimate gathering and quickly nodded her head in agreement. "Come on, Pat. This will be fun. Eric and Bruno will be fine on their own. Look—they're running up the ski hill to enjoy the view."

Something I'd never be caught dead doing,
Pat thought.

As they entered the large screened-in porch of the crowded log cottage, Deb and Pat were immediately caught up in the celebratory atmosphere. They noticed a huge spread of tasty-looking appetizers and tantalizing desserts, prepared by the caterers at Good Tyme, a restaurant in nearby Washburn.

"Darn! Why did we bother to eat?" Deb asked, a hint of frustration in her voice.

"Just because it's there doesn't mean we have to eat it," Pat admonished her gently. "Besides, we didn't come for the food. We came for the people!"

Deb nodded, although she couldn't tell if Pat's newfound enthusiasm was genuine.

"Is it true that the body was so rotten they couldn't identify it?" a voice whispered behind her.

"I heard that someone at the Big Top was behind it," whispered another.

Just then, Byron, one of the visiting musicians, walked briskly into the room and approached the tables with disdain, as if he were a cranky judge at a county fair. He eyed the beautiful food, which the crowd was "oohing" and "aah-ing" over, quickly did an about-face, and strutted to the door to the dressing room. "Where's Marcia?" he bellowed, oblivious to the crowd close beside him. "I was told that Marcia was the hostess tonight! Where is she? I want McDonald's! If I've told them once, I've told them a hundred times—I can't go on stage without my usual pre-performance favorite. None of that Gucci-rich stuff for me!" he said indignantly to no one in particular.

"Jerk!" Deb and Pat said almost at the same time, smirking at each other.

Deb did her best to savor being outside for the rest of that beautiful evening. The sound of a loud clanging bell signaled the five-minute warning and reminded them that it was time to take their seats in the big tent. Eager to see the new season begin, the crowd made a beeline to the entry of the Tent.

They didn't have long to wait before the house band broke into a rousing chorus of "Ballyhoo."

I can't believe another year's gone around,

Is that a Big Top Chautauqua lying on the ground?

Ballyhoo ... Ballyhoo ... Ballyhoo!

The crowd went crazy with wild applause. At the end of the song, Carl strolled up to the microphone at center stage and began the season in earnest.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to another season at the Big Top. Please give a grand Big Top welcome to Gerald DePerry, our resident Native American storyteller from neighboring Red Cliff. Gerry is from the Band of Lake Superior Chippewa, or Ojibwa tribe.

Gerry walked nobly to center stage, dressed in his full traditional native garb. He carried a large eagle feather in his right hand. In his left hand, he held a large staff, decorated with feathers. On his head was a chieftain headdress made of feathers. His leather tunic and leggings were beaded in patterns of turquoise and white.

Gerry smiled at the audience. "Thank you, Carl," he began. "It's always good to be invited here to share stories with you about my people, especially stories where the Indian isn't a thief."

The audience laughed.

"Many, many years ago, when Wenabojoo—our Anishinabe word for God—was familiar with this part of the country, his favorite spot was Lake Superior." With his quiet power, Gerry instantly had the audience's rapt attention. "And in his travels around the Bay, he noticed that a giant beaver made his home here. Wenabojoo decided to capture this great beaver, and he built a dam to keep him in this part of the bay. He used rocks, sticks, and sand and built his dam across the bay. Long Island still exists as part of the dam that Wenabojoo built.

"Poor Wenabojoo was disappointed because he didn't build his dam strong enough, and the giant beaver escaped and swam out into Lake Superior. Wenabojoo was so angry that he took handfuls of sand and threw them at the beaver as he swam away. As far as he could see, Wenabojoo kept throwing things, creating an island with each handful. And that is how the Apostle Islands were formed."

Gerry walked to the center of the stage, where a large wok-like bowl lay atop a tall stool. In the bowl was a bundle of sweet grass. "We usually don't tell stories like that until wintertime," Gerry said, "so this evening, I put out some tobacco and said a prayer, because I didn't want to offend any spirits that may be here tonight." Taking out a match, he lit the end of the bundle and then slowly and carefully walked down the steps from the stage and into the audience, carrying the bowl with him.

"Tonight, I have been asked to smudge the tent. Smudging is a traditional Native American purification ritual, done to drive away any evil spirits and create a physical space filled with harmony."

Deb inhaled deeply as the smell of sage and sweet grass permeated her senses. Gerry walked past her seat as he circled the inside of the tent, wafting the smoke with his eagle's feather. Deb turned so that the smoke could envelope her whole being.

Ah-h, let it be real,
she thought, catching a twinkle in Pat's eye. Once again her friend seemed to read her mind, as she, too, twirled in the fresh scent.

"Is this the stuff that takes you to a higher plane," Pat joked, "or just gets you high?"

Deb looked at Pat, as she listened to the native drums and the hypnotic sound of Gerry's voice. "It's real in that I want this place cleansed of the evil that happened here," Deb said. "It's real in that the smudging does its job and makes a new beginning."

Pat put her hand on Deb's. "I know, but the truth is, it won't be gone until we find out who did this terrible thing. Can't you feel it?"

Deb nodded, a troubled look on her face. "Yes, I know you're right, but tonight let's just enjoy the opening of one of our favorite places. Deal? Tomorrow we'll carry on."

"Yes, let's," Pat agreed.

After the lively performance by the house band, Byron's set seemed to fall on its face. Even so, the night was relaxing. Deb arranged a ride home for Eric and Bruno with the Epsteins. She and Pat wanted to linger a bit longer in the new season of magic.

Deb walked into the T-Bar, aptly named to coordinate with the ski resort business that took over the Chautauqua grounds during the long winter season. Pat was seated with the house-band members in the corner. Phil, Jack, Ed, and Tom were sitting with Sam West and seemed involved in a post-mortem of their performance on stage. The band members sounded like a gaggle of excited geese.

"Hey, Deb," Phil called out to her. "Pull up a chair and come throw a few back with us." He gestured to an empty chair next to Sam.

Wow, this is a happy crowd,
Deb thought, as she made her way through the crowded room to the corner.
They obviously feel as good about their performance as the audience.
Deb was surprised that after all the years of doing shows, these musicians still worried about whether or not they were good.

"Hi, guys," Deb said, nodding to the excited group. "Looks like the season is off to another great start. Can I buy you a round? Here's to you all. How do you keep doing this year after year?"

"It's the nature of show business," Tom responded with a happy smile.

Pat, as usual, the life of the party, lifted her glass to toast the band. "Here's to the music and here's to you!" she chimed enthusiastically.

"And lest we forget, here's to the one who no longer does his music," Deb added.

They clinked their beer mugs, and Deb reached down for her purse on the floor to get her wallet. As she did so, she noticed a small, folded piece of paper by Sam's feet. She assumed it was a napkin and picked it up, thinking absently about litterbugs. But after reaching for it, she realized it was a handwritten note. And as she read it, a chill ran down her spine.

The din from the crowd had grown increasingly loud, but Deb sat quietly, trying to decide what to do. Her brain was working overtime now, as she thought about what she had seen written on the piece of paper. She clutched it tightly in her hand, not wanting anyone else to see. She wanted to look at it again, just to be sure of what she'd seen, but she told herself,
No, it's none of your business. This is not your property!
Her lawyer and good-girl brain, the part of her that was trained to respect and protect the privacy of others, screamed at her to leave it alone.

But this is about Mac—a dead man!
intoned the curious, inquisitive other voice in her head. After debating a few moments more, Deb's nosy brain won the day.

"I'll get the next round!" she announced, getting up and walking toward the bar. "Send a round over to the table in the corner, and add a Diet Coke for me, too," she called to the bartender. Then she walked to the ladies room and quickly entered one of the stalls. She reached into her purse and opened the paper once again.

Just one little peek,
she thought.
It won't hurt anything. Yeah, just like opening Pandora's Box.

Sam—

I know about the affair with Linda. We need to talk, soon. Call me tomorrow or I have no choice but to share your Little secret with the others.

Mac

Wow
, Deb thought, taking a deep breath. She committed the words to memory, then washed her hands and joined the happy crowd. Just as Deb sat down at the table and her glass of Diet Coke, the group started to disband. As people got up to leave, she sat still as a stone, breathlessly trying to decide what to do with the crumpled note she held in her hand.

Sam looked at the note in Deb's hand. Without a word or so much as a facial tic to belie what he was thinking, he quickly snatched it from her and stuffed it into his front vest pocket.

"That's mine. I dropped it!" Sam said.

Deb looked into Sam's eyes for some clue as to the significance of the note. She saw no trace of guile or ire there. Instead, ever the smiling artist, Sam graciously shook her hand.

"Thanks for coming, Deb," he said. "It's always good to have so many faithful supporters like you and Pat here on New First Night."

Can't wait to tell Pat about this!
Deb's thoughts were troubled as she turned and walked into the night air for the ride home.