Too Much at Stake (10 page)

As Pat walked home alone after work, her mind was filled with the latest Janet Evanovich novel being fed through her ear buds. She was jostled from her story as she felt someone bump into her.

"Hey! Watch where you're going, will ya?"

"Oh, sorry," Pat said automatically, puffing a little and pulling out her ear buds. She looked into the familiar face of Sam West, the photographer from the Big Top.

"Just kidding," Sam said. "You looked so serious, I just had to bump into you. How is the case going?"

"Why does everyone think I'm working on the death at the Tent?"

He laughed. "If you aren't, then how do you know which case I'm talking about? Get too famous, and I'll have to be your paparazzi." He lifted up his camera and pretended to click.

Pat laughed, too, and they walked companionably for a minute.

"No, really," Sam persisted. "Have you heard anything? After I got dressed out by the police for taking a few photos, I'm afraid to show any interest at all. Did they figure out what killed him?"

"I'm really not supposed to talk about it. Not that I know much, just that it was a blunt instrument. Why? Do you have any ideas?"

"No, but I've known Linda since ... well, since the beginning. And I worry about her and Forrest. Frankly, I never liked the way he treated her."

Pat stopped and looked at him. "That's right! You've been around since the Tent started. I've been racking my brain, trying to figure out what the blunt instrument is."

Sam looked at her, shrugged, and started walking again. "Could have been anything. There are lots of tools in that barn. A hammer . crowbar, maybe? Heck, anything with heft would do." He held up his hand. "Even this might work."

Pat looked at the camera tripod in Sam's hand and a shiver went down her spine as she realized they were on the path with no one in sight. No one to call to if .

"Hey, don't let your imagination run wild," Sam said, seeing her look of fear. "Sure, I had a thing for Linda. But that was a long time ago. I didn't hate the guy. I just thought he never grew up. Me, I wouldn't ever risk ruining my equipment on someone's head." With that, he jogged ahead, leaving her behind.

That's the trouble with murder in a small town,
Pat thought.
Even when you finally find out who did it, you still have to live with the way you looked at others and thought, "Was it him?"

The next day, Pat got into her Volvo, turned the key—and immediately felt guilty for driving.
It isn't because I'm falling into my old habits,
she told herself.
I'm late and can't walk to meet Deb.
She glanced down at the cookies on the passenger seat as she buckled her seat belt.
And a cookie is definitely okay once in a while,
she thought defiantly.

Just as she backed out of the garage, her phone rang. She quickly stepped on the brake and scrambled for her purse to catch the call before it went to voice mail.
Maybe it's Deb,
she thought. "Hello," she said distractedly, trying to stuff all the items back into her purse that had fallen on the floor.

"Hi, is this the pastor with a bent for murder?" inquired a deep male voice.

Her face flushed. Ever since they had solved their first murder, people had razzed her unmercifully. "Listen, smart aleck," she blurted out. Then she paused. She knew that voice.
Peter Thomas!
"And is this the army's June calendar star? How
did
you get that badge to stick on?" The hearty laugh on the other end of the line made her smile as she checked that the car was in park.
I don't need to roll into the street and hit a car when I'm on the phone with army intelligence!
"But I suppose if you had such a calendar, you'd all have to wear masks so no one could identify you."

Peter laughed again. "Don't even go there," he warned amiably. "I'm getting to the age that the photo would have to be taken in the dark or in a blizzard. Mine would have to be called 'undercover agent.'"

Pat laughed with him. They both were of a certain age, but Peter was amazingly fit. "So what's up?" Pat asked. "Do you need help with another case? Deb and I are available."

"Yeah, like that would happen. Actually, I'm giving you a call because I know about the Big Top case."

"Peter, I'm amazed!" Pat said. "How did you hear about that?"

"Well, LeSeur and I have stayed friends since solving the case in Ashland together last year. Even managed to go fishing a few times in the big lake when I've been in the state."

"And you didn't call for coffee?" she teased.

"Next time, for sure, Pat. I don't want to make that handsome husband of yours jealous, you know. But here's the thing: I know that you and Deb are looking into Mac's death. Don't deny it; save your breath," he said as she started to sputter. "Just thought you might like to know that the CIA and army intelligence ..." He paused. "Remember the young kid I brought up there? Andy Ross? Well, he's turning out all right. He and I were working together and looking into Mac's taxes and the possibility of his smuggling over the border. Not enough was found to prosecute, you understand but still ... I'm calling to warn you because if drug running was involved, it could get dangerous."

"Oh, I don't think ..." Pat started but then stopped.
The b and did go in and out of the country. I hate to think it, but what did I really know about Mac, except that he was charming and played a great fiddle?

Just then, Pat's new iPhone beeped; it was Deb. "Thanks for the heads-up, Peter, but I've gotta go. I have another call, and I'm late to meet Deb already."

"Just let me know if you get in trouble," he said. "And say hi to Deb for me."

Pat walked up to the front window of the Black Cat and peered inside. She didn't see Deb, so she crossed the street to the bakery to get sourdough for supper and maybe a muffin.

"Sneaking into the bakery for a treat, Pat? Does your weight-watching friend know?"

Pat looked behind her to see who had spoken. "Oh, hi, Linda," she said, giving her a hug. "Don't tell, okay?"

"There seem to be more than enough secrets being kept in these parts today," Linda said, "so what's one more?"

"I'm so sorry for your loss and Forrest's. If there's anything I can do ."

"It's going all right, I guess," Linda said with a sigh. "Sal's going to try to let us continue the shows, so that's good. Forrest is a little crazy. Who wouldn't be? He had a fight with one of his friends the other night. I just hope they figure this all out soon. It's hard, you know?"

Pat squeezed Linda's arm sympathetically. "Things will get better. Just ride the wave."

"Yup, I keep telling myself that. Pray for us, will you? By the way, I have that poached fish recipe and story you wanted for the church cookbook, but I didn't bring it into town with me. Sorry."

"It's okay. I'll pick it up. You've had more on your mind than fish recipes."

"Yes," Linda agreed. "If only I could be sure—"

Just then the beautiful woman behind the counter piped up, "Pastor Pat, halloo! What can I do for you?"

"Sourdough, please. Large."
Now what did Linda start to say?
Pat wondered. She paid for the bread and then turned back to Linda, but she was gone.

Deb sipped a freshly poured cup of French Roast as she waited expectantly for Pat at the Black Cat. It was eight in the morning, and Deb was tired from having overtaxed her brain the night before. There was so much to process all at once. The whole thing seemed just too incredible—an unexplained death at her beloved Big Top.

As she waited, Sarah Martin, the local town decorator and Deb's neighbor, approached her table and sat down.

"Hey, Deb, I heard that you and Pat were there when they found the body at the ski hill. That must have been a shocker!"

"You're not kidding," Deb answered. "This is one of the worst things that has happened in the Chequamegon Bay area in the twelve years since Marc and I moved here. And I am so glad I am not on the Chautauqua board right now," Deb said, rolling her eyes.

Sarah's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You mean you're not president?"

"Nope. Eight years on the board of directors was long enough for me. And nearly three years as board president was
more
than enough."

"How did they rope you into that, anyway?"

"As a matter of fact, it was
your
mother who did it!" Deb replied. "Shortly after moving to Ashland, I got the standard invitation issued to all newcomers: 'You have to come to the Tent. It's the most unique musical experience you will ever have.' So Marc and I went to our first house show and were blown away. It was 'Riding the Wind.' After that, we went to all the others.

"Since that first show I have spent many sweet summer nights on that ski hill, with only the bright blue canvas cover between me and the stars—ecstasy! All those musical artists," Deb rhapsodized, "really expanded my horizons, like the gentle gilding of a brilliant sunrise in the morning sky."

"That tent is a hidden treasure, no doubt about it," Sarah agreed.

"Did you live here when it all got started?" Deb asked.

"I sure did! I remember when Warren and his buddies moved to the area. We were all young back then. That was a long time ago, and a lot of water has gone over the damn since." And with that, Sarah said her good-byes, and with coffee in hand, she pirouetted around and was out the door.

Sarah had no sooner left than Deb's cell phone began buzzing. Deb hurriedly dug into her jeans pocket to grab the phone. "Hello, Deb speaking," she sang cheerily. In response, she heard the deep, velvety voice of Carl Carlson. Carl was a big bear of a local radio announcer, with a quick, wry wit, and a heart of gold. He had taken over as president of the board after Deb had stepped down.

"Hey, Deb. Glad I caught you before you got to work. Is this a good time to talk?"

Deb detected an unusual urgency to Carl's usually unflappable voice.

"Yeah," she said, agreeing even though she was sure that this call would not be a short one. Carl rarely called her but when he did, it was usually to discuss Tent politics or to use her as a sounding board over the latest power struggle between the board and staff. And Carl just loved to talk.

"Have you heard the latest, Deb?" he asked.

"You mean, about the body?" Deb replied.

"Not that. You should have been at the last board meeting. You won't believe what happened! A group of board members are proposing to put up a bronze monument to the house band at the bottom of the ski hill, right at the entrance to Chautauqua. Problem is, the artist can only put in five people. How do we choose, after we put in Warren and Betty? So another faction says, 'That's going just a bit too far.' After all, they said, Big Top is so much more than just a few people. Why, there have been lots of local performers who have come and gone over the years that have also been part of the glue holding it all together. How could we possibly leave them out? Sure, they said. Warren's the one with the original idea, and his and Betty's genius created the house shows, but so many others put in their sweat equity, night after night. And on and on it went."

Deb listened intently, trying hard not to prepare her answer in her head before he was finished. She knew that Carl was going to ask her opinion in her role as former president of the board.

"Don't you miss dealing with this stuff?" Carl asked sardonically.

"The short answer is no. But you know, Carl, I never re-ally cared that much about the nitty-gritty political battles that went on over the years. I always saw myself as a peacemaker," Deb replied.

"It was a quality that served you well, Deb. Especially during that high-conflict time in board and staff relations a few years ago. Do you remember that? I don't know how you survived being president then. Don't know how you did it."

"I guess I am just temperamentally unsuited to take sides between people I love. Reminds me too much of childhood struggles with my parents. I'm good at seeing the pros of both positions. Guess that's why I like to mediate those divorces," Deb responded.

"And here I am, about to ask you into the middle of yet another controversy," Carl said a bit tentatively.