Too Much at Stake (6 page)

Finishing her cup of coffee and feeling restless, Deb decided to walk Strider, her golden retriever, and to stop to see Pat. Despite her thoughts and fantasies of travel, Deb just couldn't stop thinking about the dead body that had been found in the canvas at the Big Top. She wondered how the poor soul had ended up hidden in that barn for so long without being missed.

At the same time as Deb was walking Strider, Sal Burrows and Gary LeSeur were sitting on either side of a desk in the sheriff's office, discussing the discovery of the dead body.

"Technically, the coroner is calling it a death by a blunt instrument, used with great force directly to the face. Can't she just tell me what it was and whether or not it was murder? Jeez Louise, why did I ever take this freaking job in the first place? I could have stayed with you in Ashland. But no, I wanted to be in charge of my own place. Well, this is working out
real
well! Two weeks into the job in Bayfield County, a place where, need I remind you, they assured me nothing ever happens, and I'm trying to figure out how a six- to eight-month-old decomposing body could have gotten into our major tourist attraction! The mayor has called me six times, and don't even ask how many times Phil has called. Who murdered him? We don't even know who it is yet. Help." The young detective looked as bad as he sounded as he slumped down in his new chair.

"Calm down, Sally," LeSeur said soothingly. "No one expects you to solve it in five minutes. You're going to do great, and now that the okay has come down, we can do this together." He patted his young former deputy on the shoulder sympathetically.

"But what do we do?" Sal wailed, slamming down his coffee cup.

"Settle," his former boss said a little bit more firmly. "First, we have already done a lot. We've secured the scene, had the coroner in, and talked to the volunteers who were helping yesterday. And we can safely say 'murder' because no dead person ever accidentally rolled himself up in a piece of eight-by-ten-foot tent canvas." He took a breath and relaxed his shoulders—the yoga technique that Deb had taught his wife surely did help him, too, even though he didn't want her to know.

"Right," the younger man said, leaning forward on the desk. "So what now?"

"Now, we roll up our sleeves and get to work. And as much as I shudder at the thought, we bring in those two women who discovered the body and find out what they remember."

"You mean ...? Oh, no! Those two are like melting chocolate—they stick to everything. Oh, why did I take this job?"

Growling, LeSeur stood up and handed Sal the phone. "Call Deb first," he instructed. "She's the saner of the two. And stop whining. Take it like a man. After all, they did give you a dollar-fifty-an-hour raise."

Grinning, Sal picked up the phone directory to look for the number. "Hey, Suzie," he called into the next room, "can you bring us another pot of coffee? I think we're going to need it."

Pat got up even earlier than usual on Monday morning and went out on her side deck. She had made herself a pot of Sister's Choice coffee. Sunday had been a long day and an even longer night after discovering the body. She still didn't know who it was—the Tent's gossip mill hadn't reached her yet. Even though it was a sunny day, Pat shivered as she remembered the scene. It was as if cold fingers were running up her spine. She zipped up her black workout jacket a little farther and sat at the ancient wooden table in the sun.
What a circus it was after the discovery!
she thought. She sat down, poured herself her first cup—adding plenty of cream—and sighed as she replayed the events in her head.

After we found the body—no! Not just a "body." It's a person, someone's son or husband—everything was such a blur of people and noise and lights. But Ruth arrived within an hour of the discovery.

Just then, Ruth walked by the side deck with Sydney, her Australian sheepdog.

"Hi, Ruth! Wasn't that just an awful scene?" Pat called out. Ruth waved, then walked up to the deck. As she approached, Pat asked, "How on earth did you get involved in that anyway? Bayfield isn't your usual territory."

Ruth nodded. "Unfortunately for me, the coroner from Bayfield County is on a kayak trip out in the Apostle Islands and won't be available for another week or so." Ruth's reply was pleasant enough, but her eyes were filled with unanswered questions about why she had met Pat and Deb at yet another crime scene.

"At l east I didn't go outside and throw up after seeing the body," Pat said, remembering the horror of the moment and shaking her head. "I wanted to, though. And what a good thing that LeSeur just happened to be on the scene. Is he going to stay involved in the investigation?"

"Technically, it is not his beat," Ruth answered, "but Sal Burrows sure was glad that LeSeur was there. He readily admitted to me that he needs the help—welcomes it from his old boss at the Ashland P.D. But you should have seen the look he had when he told me that you and Deb were there too!" She laughed, remembering. "His face was celery-green!"

"Can't really blame him," said Pat. "Since his only other murder investigation in his entire career had Deb and me woven into it like pieces in a rag rug." She sighed heavily. "I am just so exhausted. And I'm wondering what will happen now, after all that work getting the Tent ready for opening night. Do you think New First Night will happen on time?"

"As far as I'm concerned, the on-site investigation is over. Of course, the building will be cordoned off, but that shouldn't be a problem," Ruth replied. "Now it's up to the crew to decide if they can pull off the first few shows."

"I don't know much about the financing of that big tent, but I know they try to keep all expenses to a minimum and that every show counts," Pat said. "After all, that's why so many people like us volunteer to park cars and sell T-shirts or raffle tickets."

"Oh, by the way, Pat," Ruth said. "My catching you like this has saved me a call—Linda and Forrest had asked me to call you."

Pat's eyes widened in amazement. "Call me? Whatever for?"

Ruth lowered her voice and explained, "This isn't public knowledge yet, but the body found in the canvas was Monty McIntyre."

"Mac? Good Lord! How awful!"

"Linda said that she and Forrest were sometimes members of the church you're serving. She would like you to help with some kind of service."

Pat nodded woodenly, still a bit shocked. "How did you find out?"

"ID in his pocket," Ruth replied.

"Oh. Of course. But when can we expect to plan a funeral?" Pat inquired.

"Well, it's going to be a while before the body is released. It's pretty clear that it wasn't an accident that killed Mac. I'll let you know when I know," Ruth said.

"I'll give Linda a call, but if you talk to her before I do, tell her I'll be glad to help out in any way I can. The poor woman."

Ruth's dog pulled impatiently on his leash. "I've got to get going, Pat. I have a lot of calls to make today. Talk to you soon."

"See you later, Ruth," Pat said as her neighbor started toward home, with Sydney's stump of a tail waggling eagerly beside her.

Pat shook her hair and then ran her fingers through it, as if she could shake off last night. She took another sip of her coffee, admiring the cup.
I hope Marc can make a few more of these,
she thought.
The girls are coming up from the cities, so I'll need them.
Marc had made a set of coffee cups for her birthday last July and had promised two more and a sugar and creamer next.
It's great having a best friend whose husband's hobby is potting.

Pat stretched out her legs, placing her feet up on the bench across from her. She took a long swallow and looked around.
Let's see,
she mused,
the peonies need to be decapitated. Yesterday's storm really devastated them. But except for a few branches down, everything else looks okay. At least the weeds haven't totally taken over the flowerbeds.
Glancing down to the cobblestone patio below her, Pat saw what looked like a small forest taking root in between the bricks. She sighed. She loved her maple trees—they towered over the three-story Victorian home and nicely shaded the table on the deck—but she was not fond of the "spinner babies" that fell from the trees in the spring and lodged in places they didn't belong. They grew everywhere, even in the rain gutters. And Pat felt like a murderer, plucking out the sturdy green plants and tossing them in the compost pile. "Helicopters," her son Martin used to call them, she remembered fondly, as she bit into a bakery scone.

How did they manage to make these so good?
she thought, momentarily distracted from her inventory of yard work. The scones seemed especially wonderful, now that she limited herself to only one or two a week. Still, being healthier was worth it. Pat wiped her fingers on her napkin.
Whatever you call them—helicopters or weeds—I have to get them up before they take over the patio. If only I didn't hear ghostly little tree screams in my mind as I pull them up.

"Better get back to work," she told herself. Humming, she started weeding. After half an hour of swatting at flies and sweating in spite of the breeze, Pat realized she was holding a handful of weeds and staring off in the distance, wondering what Deb was doing. Until recently, she would have picked up the coffee pot and cup, walked down the block, gone through Deb's back door and into the kitchen, and peeked out onto the porch to see if Deb was finished with her yoga. Now the alpha house was filled with male hormones, and she avoided it. Their two husbands joked that "the girls" could get along without them easier than without each other.

"Still ..." Pat groaned as she got up from her knees. She surveyed all the little trees sticking up their heads among the bricks and then noticed the puny pile she had managed to pull. "It's a top-of-the-morning, beautiful Wisconsin May day," she said gaily to the birds who were watching her. "And I'm not going to waste it pulling weeds." With a flourish, she tossed the pile in the compost heap, brushed the dirt off of her jeans, and started to sing with forced gaiety, ignoring her aching knees. "Oh, what a beautiful morning! Oh, what a beautiful day. I've got a beautiful feeling . everything's going my way!"

"Who's singing?" a voice rang out from next door.

"Oh, hi, Terri," Pat called to her neighbor. "Come on over. I've got coffee." Pat went back up on the deck to pour a second cup for herself and a new one for Terri. She always kept an extra cup on hand in case a neighbor stopped by.

"You sound so perky this morning!" Terri exclaimed, taking the proffered cup from Pat's outstretched hand.

"No matter how much I sing or how loud I sing it, that is not how I am really feeling," Pat replied honestly.

"Why? Is something wrong?" Terri asked.

Pat shrugged.
What is it I am feeling?
she wondered as she slathered the last bite of her scone with homemade raspberry jam.

"Is something wrong at work?" Terri prodded.

"No. It's just part-time interim work at the Lutheran church. It's all going fine. That church will be a fine place for some young pastor and family," Pat answered. "No, it's not that. It's—" Pat was momentarily startled by a banging noise coming from the second floor of her house.

"You entertaining strangers in your house again?" Terri teased.

"Not this time," Pat joked. "Mitchell's up from the city early this week. He'll be here for a whole week instead of just the weekend. And I'm glad."

"Do you miss him when he's gone?" Terri asked.

"Sure. But since our townhouse in the city hasn't sold yet, we just have to put up with his working where the pay is better."
Nope, that's not what I'm feeling,
Pat decided. She looked over the edge of the deck at the patio, half-cleared of its tiny forest, and let out a wry laugh. "I haven't the slightest interest in getting down to finish that job. And it's not because my knees and back hurt."

"So what's the beef?" Terri persisted, leaning closer to Pat. "Is it the death at the Tent?"

"Ah-h. Is it the death at the Tent," Pat repeated. "Boy, that sure isn't helping my mood." She shook her head and added emphatically, "But I'm
not
getting involved."