Too Much at Stake (11 page)

Deb breathed in, asking the universe for guidance before answering. "A bronze statue? Well, Carl, that sounds hard. Maybe there's some middle ground, like putting a plaque in the front of the office or something," she ventured.
What next?
Deb thought.
Is this the Disneyland of the North? Next they'll be putting up plastic loons and neon hunters.

Carl hesitated briefly after hearing Deb's answer, and then he pivoted to the real reason for his call. "Deb, I would be really remiss if I didn't ask you about what you think about this dead body that was found. I'm losing sleep over it, believe me. I could use some help on this. This is potentially disastrous. More disastrous, by far, than anything else that has happened in the past twenty-three years of this organization."

"Well, to be honest, Carl, I am still a bit stunned by the whole thing myself," Deb responded.
A bit stunned?
she thought.
Now there's an understatement! I am still freaked out by having come upon a dead body on my beloved Chautauqua grounds—and Monty McIntyre no less!
"And I share your concern over the PR problem with this and how it can be presented to the public in any kind of flattering way. It's a tough one," she commiserated.

"I just think that this thing has the potential to bring the whole thing down—whoosh—just like that. Imagine—no more Chautauqua on the hill during those sweet summer nights."

Deb shuddered at the thought. To her, the day Chautauqua went out of business would truly be—to borrow from the lyrics of "American Pie"—the day the music died.

"I'm really calling you today, Deb, because I need your help, and you're just the person—I mean, you and your good friend, Pat are just the ones to really look into this thing and help me put the best face on a miserable situation. You two have it all: you're both trusted members of the community, you have a demonstrated commitment to Chautauqua, and you're smart."

Resist. Resist!
Deb thought as Carl continued his campaign spiel. She knew that he was trying to stroke her ego and deep down, she knew that there was no place for ego in this situation. Besides, she had enough going on in her life right now.

No! No! No!
the voice in her head screamed.
You don't need this. Hang up now!

But she didn't hang up. She heard the desperate plea in Carl's voice, and all she could think about was the awful prospect of Big Top being destroyed. It was a thought she just couldn't dismiss. No, she had to do what she could to keep that from happening, even if it meant more headaches or dealing with the teasing from Marc about once again trying to save the world.

"So, Carl, what is it exactly that you are asking us to do?" Deb replied gamely, in as confident a voice as she could muster.

"I want the two of you to try to find out what happened to poor Mac; to do an internal investigation, if you will, and report to me about what you find. That way, we can be prepared as a board to be proactive in our publicity, rather than waiting for this to trickle out in the media."

"I'll talk to Pat and see what she says," Deb agreed with a sigh.
After all, we would be less expensive than a five-hundred-dollar-a-day private investigator. Then again, if he hires a private detective, then everyone will know that he is snooping.
But in her heart, she knew exactly what her mystery-loving friend would say.

"Hi, y'all!" Pat greeted the crowd. Over the last two years, Pat had come to know the townies that came to the Black Cat. There was Wayne, the science and computer whiz, and Carol, whose photography business had started to get almost as successful as the sawmill owned by her lumberjack husband. And today, engaged in an intense debate with one of the new Northland College students, was poet and resident hothead, Rick. Looking around, Pat saw Deb sitting with Joel, the professor of music at Northland.

Pat smiled at her friend. "Let me just get my cup of java, and I'll be right there." Pat felt she was "glowing"—her word for when sweat went down her back—so she took off her sweatshirt, revealing a tank top. "Whew, I'm hot! Working out sure revs up my engine. I could eat three of those luscious, just-from-the-bakery cinnamon rolls," she said to Matt, one of her favorite baristas. After looking over her shoulder at Deb's watchful gaze, she stuck out her tongue. "But I won't."

She slid her dollar and a quarter across to Matt and grabbed the cup he offered. "What's my horoscope today, Matt?" she asked, looking at the cup. The regulars at the Black Cat didn't get their daily astrology fix from the newspaper. They had decided long ago that the cups they were given would tell them something about their day. The collection of coffee cups at the Black Cat numbered a hundred or so, each with a different saying on it. And the baristas took their status as tellers of the future very seriously—the tips were better then.

"Yours has flowers today," Matt said sagely, "for 'everything's coming up roses.'"

"Thanks, buddy." As Pat debated which coffee to pick from the urns, she realized that the flowers on her coffee cup weren't roses at all; they were daisies. And the phrase that came to mind as she chose Mountain Blend was not "everything's coming up roses" but "pushing up daisies." That really wasn't the same at all, considering that the corpse they had found would soon be doing just that.

Just as Pat got to the table, Joel stood up. "See you, ladies. It's off to work for me. Actually, I love teaching these summer sessions."

"What are you teaching this summer?" Deb asked. She had thought about taking a class for fun.

"Oh, the history of jazz. And private lessons, of course. But summer is slower, so it gives me a chance to sit on the porch and play my banjo."

Pat smiled at the thought of hot summer nights and hearing the wonderful banjo sounds coming down the street. "We'll have to get together to do a little music," she called after him as he headed to the door. "See you tomorrow." Turning to Deb, she asked, "So, what's on the agenda for today?"

"Let's move to the booth in the back, and I'll tell you," Deb replied. As Pat slid into her seat with her daisy-covered mug, Deb smiled and raised her cup in silent salute, her face lit up with the excitement of new adventure and discovery. "Just a lot of sleuthing, maybe!" Deb squealed. "You won't believe the phone call I just had. Do you remember meeting Carl Carlson, the Big Top prez? The big guy with the white beard? He just called me! And he wants our help to 'monitor' the investigation into Mac's death."

Pat shot Deb a stern look. "Wait a minute, Deb! I have to stop you right there. We can't go inserting ourselves into a situation where we have no business—that's just asking for trouble. I don't care how much you want to please your Big Top buddies.
Boundaries,
remember?" Although Pat hoped her look had indicated "Don't argue with me; I mean business on this one," as she sat back in her seat, she thought,
But yes, of course we'll do it.

"Come on, Pat, don't jump to conclusions. Just hear me out, okay?" Deb pleaded patiently. "First of all, I don't want more headaches in my life any more than you do. Heaven knows I have enough on my hands just navigating my way through an all-male household every day.

"But Carl is very worried that this whole thing could mean the end of the Tent. Imagine—no more Lake Superior Big Top Chautauqua on the hill. No more music. Just fold up the canvas and put it away forever and just let it molder in the barn," Deb went on morosely.

"As long as there's no body inside, you mean?" Pat joked lightheartedly, breaking the tension between them.

"Eeew, Pat, getting a little dramatic, aren't you?" Deb replied with a smile.

"Okay, so Carl is worried. What does he possibly think we can do to help, anyway?"

"He needs us to be the eyes and ears into Sal's investigation; to just keep him posted on whatever we can learn about where the investigation is going, so that we can help him manage the PR response by the board. It's all about schmoozing the public with these non-profits, you know. He didn't say anything about interfering in any way or about our doing any investigating ourselves." Deb's words seemed to fly out of her mouth now as she assumed her most persuasive posture, honed over many years of practice in the courtroom. "This is really
big,"
Deb said dramatically. "He is only asking us because he thinks we are
so
trustworthy."

"More like stupid!" Pat retorted.

"So, let's try to imagine whom we would consider as suspects if we were the ones investigating, even though we're not," Deb ventured, trying to move forward.

Pat, not for the first time realizing that she would have to play along, sat back and reflected. "Well, in old mystery stories I've read, the people closest to the victim are always the primary suspects. So, if I were Sal, I would be looking at Mac's band members, son, and jilted lovers," Pat said authoritatively.

"Lovers?" Deb asked, her voice perking up with interest at the thought of it. "I don't know anything about jilted lovers, except for Linda Johnson."

"Yeah, I wonder why she never married Mac."

Deb shrugged. "I suppose she didn't want to join Mac on the road or live in Cape Breton in the off-season—that's where the Canadian Fiddlers are based. Mac wasn't particularly happy to be a father, but did what he could to be supportive of Linda's decision to keep the baby. She told me once that being on the road was no way to raise a child with roots and a sense of place. And besides, Linda loves the North Woods; she's an earth mother. I heard that Mac paid his child support and came to visit when he could." Deb took a sip of her coffee and shook her head. "I can't believe Linda had anything to do with it. She's such a sweet woman. What motive would she possibly have to harm the father of her own child? Assuming, of course, that we're talking about an intentional act of malice. She doesn't seem to have an ounce of violence in her bones."

"Well, Deb, I won't waste my breath reminding you of all the so-called upright citizens I have met during all my years of ministry who have done despicable things!"

Deb nodded in agreement. "I'm going to play devil's advocate. Let's assume that Mac's death wasn't a murder. It
could
have been an accident."

"Death by blunt instrument. That's what the coroner said," Pat reminded her. "Let's just say, for example, that Mac didn't give Linda enough money, or that she was trying to protect her boy from something to do with his father that we don't know about. What if ..." Pat said, lowering her voice, "she was jealous of another woman?"

"Linda, jealous? After all these years?" Deb said incredulously. "No way. From what I've heard, her affair with Mac ended over twenty years ago. That just doesn't sound plausible. Besides, rumor has it that Mac had taken up with a hotty up in Herbster."

Pat held up her hand. "Just a sec. This deserves a second cup of coffee." She walked up to the counter. She pulled change from her pocket, but she didn't notice Matt's smirk in the direction of the new barista.

"So, will it be a body—I mean, a bagel—with your coffee today?" Matt asked.

"Wha-at?" Pat looked at him sternly. "Stop that! A person has died. I resent your implication that I like being involved in this." She pulled herself up in what she hoped was a haughty pose. "Besides, I have enough to do, working at the church right now."

Turning to the new guy, Matt said, "Nate, this is Pastor Pat. You know, the one we told you about? Solved a murder right here at the Black Cat." He leaned over the counter and whispered conspiratorially, "So, really, who was it, and has Sal told you to butt out yet?"

Pat picked up her cup with as much dignity as she could muster. Then she broke into a grin. "Okay, so you've got me. And he didn't actually put it in those terms. It was more like, 'Do you want to go in one of my ugly cells for obstructing justice?'"

"See? What did I tell you?" Matt said as he nudged Nate. "Those two are at it again!"

Pat returned to the table, and Deb picked up where she'd left off, almost as if Pat hadn't stepped away. "In fact, I heard somewhere that it was the main reason he brought his band to town this year—the hotty in Herbster. Maybe it was just too much for Linda. Maybe this was the last straw!"

"Honestly, Deb, I don't think you're giving Linda enough credit. I think she's way stronger than that," Pat responded.

Deb looked out the window. "Okay, so you don't think Linda could have done it. What about Forrest, then?"

"Deb! Now you're really getting ridiculous. If I didn't know better, I'd think
you
were the one reading all those mystery books!"

"Hear me out, Pat—the pros and cons. Pros: Forrest is temperamentally suited to his sheltered life here in the North Woods, rubbing elbows with all sorts of musicians. Rumor has it, though, that Mac was deeply invested in the idea of Forrest's following in his footsteps as a fiddler. But once Forrest became a teenager, it got harder and harder for Mac to have influence over his son's musical tastes."

"Like every other parent in the world!" Pat exclaimed.

"Right. But call it guilt, call it projection, call it anything you want—Mac seemed compelled to step up his efforts to force his son on to a path that Forrest didn't want," Deb expounded. "Linda told me once that there were many arguments between father and son whenever he visited, and she got tired of the tension between them and began to step in. She couldn't stand Mac's onerous and condescending attitude toward her gentle, well-adjusted son—the son that she alone had brought up." Deb pursed her lips, her exasperation clear.