Too Much at Stake (17 page)

While Deb and Marc were drying off, Pat was finishing her visiting for the church. She stopped at home to change into her jeans and T-shirt before heading to Bayfield.

On her phone messages from the night before was yet another frantic call from Carl. He begged her to come over and talk and enticed her with an offer of a great dessert. When she tried to call back, there was no answer and so she left a message for him: "Okay, Carl, I can make it for an hour, but then I have a meeting with a wedding couple at four. See you there. Bye."

And for goodness sake, get a grip!
she thought.

Pat arrived at the distinguished white Victorian in Bayfield a little early but didn't see Deb's car there. She debated whether to wait or go on up the steps.

Heck, he can probably see me sitting out here like a fool. Better go in,
she thought. She looked in her rearview mirror to quickly check her hair and then got out of her car. The Fifth Symphony was drifting out the window as she climbed the stairs and rang the bell. She waited and then rang again. Still nothing.

Maybe he's got the music so loud that he can't hear the bell.
She rang it again. Glancing around, she noticed an elderly man watching her from his window across the street.

I bet nobody gets away with anything on this street,
she thought idly. She waved a friendly hand at him, and he dropped the curtain abruptly.
Well, nobody's looking now.

A brisk breeze off the big lake reminded her it was still spring and that she should have worn her warmer coat.

Br-r-r, let me just ...
Turning the handle experimentally, she found it wasn't locked.
Doesn't anyone lock their houses here?
she wondered, shaking her head.
I'll just open it a tiny bit and yell in.
"Hello, Carl? Are you home?"

Except for the music, everything was quiet—until the back door slammed.

Pat stood still. She knew the layout of this particular house. If she was right, the door to the kitchen was close off to the right.
Someone must be there—or has just left. Where is Deb? Should I just walk in?

"Friend of mine, are you holding that door open so the flies can get in or what?"

Heart pounding, Pat turned to see Deb right behind her. "Gosh, you scared me," she panted, catching her breath.

"Sorry. But why don't you go in? Where's Carl?"

"I don't know," Pat whispered. "But I heard a door in the back slam. I think someone was in there, and I scared them off."

"Stop it. This is Bayfield, for goodness sake. Not the big city. Carl probably just didn't hear you come in. Let's go see."

Pat put out her hand to stop Deb. "I don't know. I have a bad feeling."

Deb pushed past her and walked briskly across the floor to the kitchen calling out, "Carl, we're here!" She called to Pat from the kitchen entry. "No one in here, Miss Heebie-Jeebie."

Pat waited for her heart to stop beating like an Irish drum as she looked around in awe. Every single spot was filled with vases, Victorian furniture, and knick-knacks.

What would my mother, the antique dealer, say if she saw this?
Pat thought. She walked into the hall and then the kitchen, where she saw that the coffee was on. The table was set.
With those cute little matching luncheon plates,
Pat noted. But no Carl.

"He probably just stepped out to get something. Don't worry about it," Deb stage-whispered.

"Or I scared someone away when I came in," Pat insisted, also in a whisper. "And if you're not worried, why are you whispering? Don't you wish now you had bought an extra mace when you got one for Julia at college?"

Making a face at Pat, Deb was saved from replying as a voice called to them from upstairs.

"Oh, hello, girls. I didn't hear you ring." A smiling Carl came down the ornately carved staircase. "I've got a great dessert from Racheli's. Let's eat and talk."

Pat pulled out a chair and settled in for a good gossip, but she couldn't stop wondering,
Who went out the door?
She turned to Carl and said admiringly, "Carl, you know I've never been inside your lovely house before, but wow, you are really a collector!"

"Sorry about not having you over sooner," he apologized. "I don't entertain here much. But actually, I'm not much of a collector," he said as he watched Pat look around the kitchen.

Pat noticed an early pie cabinet, and inside the screen doors was a collection of Majolica dishes and serving plates to die for. She pushed back from the table and went over to the beautiful dry sink. "This is original, isn't it?" she said appreciatively. She ran her hand along it and noticed a collection of hog-scraper candlesticks inside it, along with some pewter measurers that she was sure were Early American. "Don't try to kid the daughter of an antique dealer. This collection is wonderful."

"Collection?" Carl looked puzzled and then smiled. "No, this isn't my collection. It's actually my mom's. She was the one who got all this. Over the years she became the favorite of the local dealers. The money she would spend! That pie safe took me on quite an adventure when I was a teen. The two of us picked it up in North Dakota. With the cost of gas and truck rental, it cost a small fortune. But once she wanted something, she just had to have it. To me it just looks like home."

"So, do you collect something else?" Pat asked. "Let me guess. Stamps? You're a philatelist!"

"Nope," Carl answered.

"Come on. Children of collectors never fall far from the tree. Let's see ... could it be books? I love them myself," she persisted.

Carl just looked at her.

"Paintings? Great art? Do you have a stunning collection hidden away in a temperature-controlled room?"

"No, really, I don't collect. Look around you. There isn't room for my own stuff."

"Maybe it's upstairs," Pat suggested, taking a step toward the stairs. "'Fess up. I'm an antique dealer's daughter so I know it runs in the blood." She was clearly teasing him, but one look at Carl's stony face made her stop in her tracks.
What in the world?

Carl cleared his throat. "No, really, the Tent is my personal life. I have collected a few pieces over the years— gifts, you understand. But that's about it. Come on. Coffee is ready."

Pat looked around the small pink-and-green kitchen that had been so popular in the fifties. The room contained evidence of the best of that era. There were four-inch tiles on the counters and backsplash, black-and-white twelve-inch tiles on the floor, and even a pink stove. The deep soapstone sink fit right in. Above the kitchen table and chairs on the wall was an early autographed poster of Willie Nelson, looking out of place in the grand old kitchen. "I knew you collected!" she crowed, sitting down at the walnut drop-leaf table.

"Yes," he said proudly, "a few of the artists have given me small gifts. And you are right. I do have a collection, of sorts. If you're interested some time, I'll share a few with you."

"That would be great," Deb said.
Come on guys, I've got pl aces to go, things to do,
she thought impatiently. "So Carl, what do you make of all this?" Deb asked, trying to bring them back to the subject at hand. "Do you have any ideas of who would have killed Monty?"

"Should I play Mother?" Pat asked, settling in at the table. She poured out the coffee, and Carl absentmindedly put two sugar cubes in his cup.

"I just don't know," he said, "I've stayed up practically all night, trying to figure it out. It just can't be Linda or Forrest. I just know it in my soul." He dramatically touched his heart. Leaning forward to take the cream Pat handed him, he continued. "There has been some talk about drugs. Could it have been that?"

Shades of a small town
, Pat thought.
How did he hear that already?

"Maybe," Deb said tentatively. "But why would Mac be killed because of it? If he was bringing in drugs, it seems that it would be a reason to keep him alive—so that he could bring in more when he traveled this year."

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe someone didn't get his cut. Maybe Mac tried to keep someone's money and that person got mad. It could have happened," Carl said. "Not that I have any proof or anything," he added, noticing their skeptical faces. "Still, it would be nice if it was someone we didn't know, wouldn't it? But if money is the motive, then how about the band members? I heard Heinrich, his drummer, complaining about being cheated. How about him?"

"If we're talking money, could it be Linda? I'll bet he never paid child support," Pat suggested as she took a cookie from the tray.

Carl stopped pouring himself a second cup. "No, not Linda!" he said, spilling the coffee into his saucer. "I just know she wouldn't do it."

"Someone said she has a temper," Pat said, playing devil's advocate. "More than one person has felt her wrath. I'm just saying, money is a motive. And the other motive for murder applies to her, too." She took a big bite of the cucumber sandwiches Carl had put out.
These are wonderful,
she thought.
Whoever takes the time to cut off crusts and make these little cute sandwiches anymore?
She savored it, knowing she wouldn't allow herself to take another. "A minute on the lips, a month on the hips" was her mantra these days.

"What other motive?" he asked.

"Well ... love ... sex," Deb replied. "And she might have that motive. We really can't rule her out," she added apologetically, patting his hand. "We can't just leave people out because we like them."

"Maybe not, but then you'd have to add a dozen young beauties from the bay area."

"What do you mean?" Deb asked. "Do you have some names?"

"I might be able to give you some. He was quite a womanizer, you know."

"I've heard that, but strangely, the women I've talked to liked him anyway. The guy really had that Scottish charm," Deb said. "The only one who was really mad was the one he stood up on Old Last Night."

"It really was his 'old last night,' wasn't it?" Carl laughed nervously. "Sorry," he added hastily. "I don't know what has gotten into me. Frankly, I hated him!"

Pat carefully put her cup down on its saucer. She wiped her lips with the vintage linen hardanger napkin. "That's a pretty strong feeling, Carl. Is there something you want to tell us?"

As if regretting his outburst, Carl chewed on his lip and then said, "No, I mean I hate what he's done to my Big Top, that's all."

I'm sure that's true,
Pat thought, giving Deb a knowing look.
But for sure that's not all of the truth.

Carl looked pointedly at his watch. "Oh, my gosh, where has the time gone?" he asked. "Sorry, but I really have to get to a board meeting. We're discussing what all this will do to the finances. Just keep me informed, will you? And thanks again for coming over."

Well, that's a brush off if I ever heard one,
Deb thought, picking up her purse.

As they stepped out onto the porch, she turned to Pat. "Got a client. Got to run. Remember, it's Ballyhoo night, and we are serving beer."

"And I've got a visit with a dear old man here in Bay-field," Pat said. "See you later."

As she got in her car, Pat looked back across the street and saw the man in the window, watching the neighborhood once again.

On the drive home from her visit in Bayfield, Pat suddenly decided that she should get a look at the barn in the daylight.
Maybe it'll give me some ideas.

There was no sign of the green pickup as she passed Linda's house, and for that, she was glad.
I don't want to explain what I'm doing here, especially since I don't know myself.
She drove up to the outbuilding and parked on the dirt road, then sat for a minute, enjoying the quiet.

It wasn't hard for her to miss the yellow crime-scene tape on the doors and the surrounding area. "You dummy, Pat," she said aloud, banging her hand on the steering wheel. "You should have known you couldn't go in."

Maybe I can just walk around the outside. I need to stretch my legs anyway.
She got out of the car and walked around the wooded side of the barn, softly humming to herself. She forgot for a moment where she was—or the reason she was here—as she enjoyed the budding trees and smell of spring.

This is silly,
she admonished herself as she rounded the building.
If anyone catches me out here, what will I say? "I'm looking for the killer to come back to the scene of the crime, just like in an old Sherlock Holmes novel"?

Just then a loud banging from the other side of the building stopped her cold.
What the heck? Maybe the killer
does
come back to the scene.
Before she could plan her next move, Heinrich walked around the corner of the building.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Me?"
she said, more bravely than she felt. "I could ask you the same thing. You didn't go inside, did you? It's still a crime scene, you know."
That's just great, Pat,
she thought.
Make the stranger in the woods angry.

"Hell, no." He took a step toward her, then stopped and smiled sheepishly. "No, I didn't, but I thought about it. No, I'm just trying to get some closure is all. Still can't believe Mac's been dead all this time and I didn't even know." He rubbed his chin. "How about you?"