Too Much at Stake (3 page)

"Hey, ladies!" boomed a deep tenor voice. "Where are your old men?" It was Sam West, holding his camera. "I want to get their pictures!"

Looking over their shoulders down the hill, the women spotted Marc and Mitch in the distance. Deb pointed down at them. "There they are, coming up the hill."

"Thanks," Sam replied as he hurried down the hill to meet them, his camera held aloft.

"How does Marc keep in such good shape?" Pat asked. "He's not having any trouble climbing the hill."

"Oh, you know Marc," Deb replied. "It's all that racquetball and sailing he does when he's not being a doctor. What about Mitch?"

"Mitch gets his exercise on the golf course," Pat said, "and of course in the Midwest, that's a short season."
He will

indeed be sore tomorrow, and even the next day,
Pat thought ruefully.
But so will I, I imagine.

"Girls, need some help over here!" Phil Anich called to them.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Operations Manager, sir!" Pat called back.

They walked cautiously to the far corner of the building—it was dark and musty, as there were only a few hanging light bulbs, and no sunlight came through the windows or the skylight. Pat squinted her eyes in the dim light. A shiver went down her spine, and she felt a rush of discomfort—a queasy feeling in her stomach and a chill in her chest—as she walked farther into the barn. Although it was late May, the room felt cold.
It has an odd, earthy smell,
Pat thought,
like mulch piles after winter, or—

"Sorry, I meant
ladies,"
Phil corrected himself. "I thought the three of us could move this one next." He pointed to a smaller rolled-up canvas. "It shouldn't be a problem, now that the two of you have been getting so trim and strong," he teased. "Take a corner, will you?" Together, the three of them attempted to lift the canvas.

"Oof!" Phil grunted. "That's heavier than I thought." He saw LeSeur coming in the door and called out to him. "Can you lend a hand?"

"Sure," LeSeur said amiably. "Anything to move this along. The rain has stopped, thank goodness, but with a smaller crew we'll be here 'til midnight, not to mention that the band is getting cranky as all get out at the delays." He wiped his wet face with a large handkerchief.

"Well, come on over here then. Quit jawing and lift that corner," Phil directed. "Man, this is so heavy you'd think there was a dead body in it."

As if on cue, the end that Pat and Deb were trying to lift up started to unroll. Their mouths dropped open as the canvas rolled back to reveal a stiff and discolored human hand.

LeSeur's eyes darted from the women to Phil as they edged away from the canvas. He narrowed his eyes, trying to assess the situation. "Is ... this a joke?"

"No, no, this is no joke," Phil said, looking shocked and a little green. "I'm pretty sure we didn't leave
that
in here for the winter." He clapped his hand over his mouth as he barked out a laugh and then gasped as the full impact of what they were looking at hit him.

LeSeur stepped up to the canvas. "I swear, Phil, if this is a joke ..." He looked up at the other man. "Nope, I thought not. Well, I guess it's going to take a lot longer to put up the Tent now." He shook his head, pointing at the two women. "Don't move. No, you, Deb, get your husbands to guard the door. Tell them, no one in or out. But don't tell anyone anything yet, please." He looked toward Pat and Phil. "And you two just stand still so we can keep the crime scene as clean as possible." He sighed deeply and grumbled, "As if
that's
going to happen. Only about a hundred people have tramped over this mud today. Oh, this is going to be
real
easy." LeSeur's brow furrowed in a way that Pat remembered from the previous year when the last dead body had been found.

Deb ran out the door, holding her stomach with both hands. Closing the door firmly behind her, she thought,
To think I gave up a tennis match to be here!

For one brief moment, there was silence. The sun had broken through the clouds, and sunlight streamed in through the small row of windows on the side wall. Pat glanced around the barn at the stacked boxes that held the props, keeping her gaze anywhere but on that hand.

If I had just stayed in the chalet to warm up the lunch,
Pat thought, shivering a little,
I could be drinking coffee right now. Please, Lord, don't let us get hooked into another murder investigation.
She felt her body begin to sway, and she did her best not to move, hoping against hope that her balancing exercises would help her.

Looking up and spying Pat, LeSeur growled, "You and your friend have the strangest habit of showing up around dead bodies. And just to be clear... you will not try solving this one, right?"

Pat remembered well her last encounter with LeSeur when their paths crossed during a murder investigation of a patron from the Black Cat Coffeehouse.

At that moment LeSeur spied Sam, snapping another photo. "And get that damn camera out of this barn. This isn't a Big Top show! This is a crime scene!"

Sam sheepishly lowered his camera and backed out of the barn.

LeSeur turned his attention back to Pat. "You're clear on what I said?"

Pat solemnly nodded her head as she held her hand over her nose and mouth, trying not to breathe too deeply. The smell of the body filled the room. "Of course," she said, her voice muffled. "You can count on it."

Though she really meant it at the time, no less true words had ever been spoken. In her wildest imagination, and she had one, she couldn't have dreamed up what happened next. Or the circumstances that presented themselves that would pull her and her best friend into danger. No, Detective LeSeur was not going to be a happy camper.

That same day, the phone rang at the home of county coroner Ruth Epstein. Ruth answered, listened attentively, and then tossed her cell phone on the kitchen table. "Why is it always cold and rainy when I get called to a scene outside?" she grumbled to her husband, Joel.

Joel grunted sympathetically from behind his
New York Times.
"Well, at least it's not the middle of the night." It still amazed him that his petite gray-haired wife didn't mind being around dead bodies. He shuddered and then smiled, reminding himself that she was equally amazed by his work—that he could deal with messy divorces and court cases and sleep through the night was beyond her comprehension.

"Car accident?" he asked, peering over his paper. "Nope," Ruth called from the hall as she put on her boots and picked up her bag. "Where is my rain hat?"

"I think it's in the front closet. Let me get it for you." Joel left his paper regretfully. It was such a luxury to read it all the way through on a Sunday afternoon. He turned to their dog that had gotten up from under the table. "Come on, Sydney, let's get Mom's hat, and then I'll take you for that walk she promised you."

The dog wagged his tail, as if he knew exactly what Joel had said, and put in a bark for good measure. Joel retrieved Ruth's hat and brought it to her as she opened the back door to leave.

"We have film society movie night at Stage North," he reminded her, "and we're signed up to sell tickets and make popcorn."

She smiled at him. "Better plan on going on your own. This one is a body at the Tent. Can you believe it?" She gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I'll call. Love you." Out the door she went, her mind already the twenty-five miles down the road and an infinity away from her home life.

Joel grabbed his jacket and stepped out onto the porch, with Sydney close on his heels. He pulled the door closed, and they set off on their walk.
Maybe I'll call Bob to help me at Stage North,
he thought. "Come on, Syd, get a move on!"

Ruth took a deep breath, like an actress coming onto the stage, and stepped into the barn at the bottom of the ski hill. She willed herself to focus. Just inside the barn door, she stopped, her razor-sharp mind taking in the whole scene. The police had already set up bright lights. Two uniformed officers, their breath visible in the chilly barn, were standing just inside the door, waiting for her.

Ruth stuffed her driving gloves into her coat pocket as she mentally divided the room into sections. The door area had a dirt floor, trampled by many volunteers' feet. To the left, shelves were filled with pile upon pile of dusty props and costumes, reminding her of a Victorian attic, full of forgotten treasures. To her right, rolls of canvases were left where they had been when the workers had been forced to stop. Beside them sat a wooden chair, as if waiting for an occupant. And there, on the ground among the canvases, was the body.

"Somebody have a heart attack putting up the Tent, Sal?" she asked as she shook the young deputy's hand. Even as she asked, Ruth realized that couldn't be the case. For one thing, there was no emergency medical unit on the scene, and for another, she knew that musty smell. Violent death, even in the cold, had its own aroma, and she recognized it in the barn.

Sal shook his head. "No, this one's been here a while. But that's your job. You tell me." He crossed his arms.

"Well, now, did you find it in among these canvases? Don't give me that look," she added after noticing Sal's defiant posture. "I know that you know enough not to move a body. Let's see what I can give you. I'm not a character in one of those detective novels Pat and Deb threaten to write—you know, someone who has all the answers—but I'll give you what I can now. The rest you'll have to wait for until the autopsy."

Ruth set down her bag, pulled on a pair of latex gloves, and dabbed some Vicks into her nose. "But thanks for the warning about how long the body's been here. Let the games begin." She took a few cautious steps toward the body, carefully watching where she walked through the crime scene area. "It looks like you've started without me," she said, glancing disapprovingly at Sal over her glasses.

Sal raised his hands, as if to ward off her judgmental look. "Now, Ruth, we haven't touched the body, except for when they first found it. LeSeur was one of the volunteers on the scene, if you can believe it." He rubbed his chin. "All I've done is get the volunteers out of the building and lay down some strips of tape on the ground so we can go over every inch when you're done." He tipped his soggy fishing hat in her direction. "Strictly by the book."