Too Much at Stake (12 page)

"All right then," Pat said. "Keep trying to convince me how Forrest could have been responsible. I'd love to follow your thinking into the wilderness, but honestly, here he is, a budding musician; he's well grounded"—she ticked off his attributes on her fingers—"he's well balanced . a guy like that is going to just up and decide to off his pop one day? Makes no sense to me."

"You're such a skeptic, Pat," Deb sighed. "But from what I've learned in all my years of family-practice law, the chances are good that the kid had lots of abandonment issues, growing up without a father and all."

"There you go again, Deb. Injecting your own issues into someone else's drama," Pat challenged her. "Not everyone in this world has to be labeled with issues!"

"Well, let's just put aside the argument for now of whether or not Forrest felt abandoned by his father," Deb continued. "What if Forrest just blew a cork because of some argument between his parents? Say he was just trying to protect his mother. Maybe he found out about the babe up in the woods in Herbster and just didn't want his mother to have to endure one more insult."

Pat shook her head. "If you ask me, it's still a stretch for someone to do something so out-of-character and so serious, without a lot more reason."

Deb nodded in agreement and stared absently around the coffeehouse. She noticed a poster still on the wall that advertised Monty and the Canadian Fiddlers' appearance at the Tent from the previous season. She gestured with her head to Pat. "Do you think we should take it down?"

"Well, we certainly don't want Forrest or Linda coming in here and having more to be sad about, do we?" Pat assented.

Pat had barely gotten the words out of her mouth when the front door to the Black Cat opened and in walked a tall, bearded, distinguished-looking man wearing a jaunty black beret. The man glanced at the poster and then, visibly agitated, walked over to the wall and ripped it down.

Deb recognized him as Heinrich Wilson, the drummer in Mac's band. She gave Pat a quick kick under the table.

"Ouch!" said Pat, loudly enough for the whole room to hear. "Why'd you do that?"

Deb rolled her eyes toward Heinrich, then smiled and called out, "Hi, Heinrich! Hey, it's nice to see you out and about."

Heinrich paused for a moment. He took off his dark sunglasses and peered at the two women, trying hard to place them.

"I'm Deb Linberg. I met you at the cabin at the Tent a few years ago before your show. I was the board president for Big Top Chautauqua then. This is my friend, Pat."

Heinrich smiled tersely, looking slightly annoyed by the intrusion, but he extended his hand in polite greeting. "Nice to see you," he replied in a detached manner.

Seizing the opening, Pat said, "So sorry about your loss . Mac . I mean, it must be hard to lose someone so close to you. I understand that you had played together a long time. Mac was such a great guy. You must have been as shocked as we were about what happened to him. Do you know yet what happened?"

Heinrich narrowed his eyes as he studied Pat. "Thanks for the sentiment, ma'am," he replied, "but the truth is, Mac wasn't always that good. Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but I'm just being honest when I say that Mac was one of those performers who sucked all the oxygen out of the room for all the rest of the grunt workers around him. Not to mention all the money, publicity, and glory. He was an attention hog, that guy."

Deb's mouth dropped open in surprise. She was taken aback by his speaking so bluntly and unkindly about a dead crony. Quickly regaining her composure, she tried one of her professional calming techniques. "Well, I can see that you must have been hurt by Mac's behavior at times, but surely there were good times for you and Barry and Tim that you want to remember?" Deb asked hopefully.

"Sounds good in theory, ma'am, but you obviously never had the IRS coming after you for more taxes than a poor peon drummer can earn in a whole year!" Heinrich's eyes were flashing now as he turned abruptly to Matt behind the counter to order a large dark cup to go.

"So is that why you didn't miss Mac over the winter?" Deb persisted.

Heinrich laughed. "Hell, no. I just thought he was in rehab. Probably most people did."

"So much for commiserating with the bereaved," Deb said under her breath as she watched Heinrich head for the door. "A guy should never call me 'ma'am' twice. Let's put him on the list. What do you think about Heinrich, anyway? He's certainly mean enough!"

"Nah, I don't know if that's true," Pat responded. "Remind me: who are Barry and Tim?"

"Barry's the bass player and Tim plays lead guitar in Mac's band."

"That's right. As long as you're letting your imagination take flight, Deb, we might as well go all the way. Here's one you're not going to like. What about Sam West?"

Deb's mouth dropped open once again and she looked as though she'd been hit in the head with a brick. She sat quietly, apparently stunned into a pained silence. When she found her voice again, she said, "Sam? Really, Pat? Sam, the photographer? Of all people! I mean, Sam has his faults ... heaven knows he's gotten into a few jams over the years. He's even thrown a few good temper tantrums, but Sam just doesn't seem to be the type to do something like this. Whatever makes you think he could?"

"Just suppose Sam was being blackmailed for some reason by Mac. Say that Mac had some dirt on him that threatened to destroy Sam's reputation."

"You mean he needed to protect his livelihood?" Deb asked.

"I mean he wanted to protect his relationship with a woman. Once again, I don't need to remind you that people are not always as they appear. Just the other day, I ran into Sam on the walking path, and he just gave me the creeps."

"What do you mean?"

"It was just a feeling I had," Pat answered. She shrugged and added, "Camera equipment is heavy, you know."

Deb pondered this thought for a time and then, glancing at the clock on her cell phone, she realized it was time to go to work.

Pat slumped in her seat, disappointed by their dead end. "I can see that we're certainly not going to solve this. And here we are again, analyzing and thinking that we know better than other people what the score is. To be continued ." she said with a smile.

"To be continued," Deb replied jauntily.

"One more thing, Deb, before you go. Do you remember Peter Thomas?"

"Peter from army intelligence? That Peter?"

"That one. He called me this morning." "What did he want?"

"He called out of the blue to warn me. Said he kept a connection with LeSeur and had heard about Mac's death. Said something about Mac and the band
running drugs"

"Wow. It sure is a small world. I want the full scoop on all of that, but right now I have to go save the world in court again. See you soon." After putting her cup in the dirty dish bin, Deb went out the door.

Deb had barely closed the outside door to her law office before her secretary Kris's cheerful voice greeted her.

"Hi, Deb. Line one is Mr. Thompson. Line two is Ms. Thompson. They both want to talk to you right away."

Deb exchanged a knowing smile with Kris as she pondered how to respond. "Which one called first?" she asked.

"She did," Kris replied. "But he sounds more desperate."

Deb knew already that it wasn't going to be an easy morning. The Thompsons were divorcing, and she was appointed by the court to act as guardian ad litem, or legal advocate, for their eight-year-old daughter, Amanda. They were locked in a bitter tug of war over the child, a real struggle for power.

"Time to look for my magic wand again!" Deb said cheerfully.
Although it seems to be missing a lot lately.

Deb knew that these parents expected her to work miracles where no one else, not even themselves, could, especially if the miracle meant taking
their
side in the custody dispute.

"Kris, can you tell Ms. Thompson I'll get right back to her? Tell her I'm on another line, but don't tell who I'm talking to." Deb took a deep breath before picking up the phone to greet Mr. Thompson. "Hello, Jim," she said in her friendliest, calmest voice.

"Oh, Deb. So glad you are in today." Mr. Thompson sounded distraught. "You won't believe what
she
did last night. Honestly, I just don't recognize my wife anymore. She's changed into a totally different person—a witch—and it's scary. I just don't know what she'll do next."

Deb pulled out her yellow legal pad and pen and settled into her desk chair to hear him out.
The glamorous life of a family lawyer. This is why I get paid the big bucks,
she thought.

"And she wouldn't even let me come to my own house. Said I had to pick up my own daughter at Burger King. Do you know how humiliating that is for me?" he whined on. "Especially since she is the one who wants this divorce. And she went off to Florida on vacation with her mother last spring! Just who does she think she is, anyway?"

Probably a woman who needed a break from the whining,
Deb thought. She looked down at her legal pad and admired the cartoon she had doodled. It was Mr. Thompson in a baby hat and diaper, whining and crying. Deb smiled.

After she listened to Jim's tale of woe, she focused on his upcoming court trial the following week. "Jim, I'm sorry that you're having such a hard time," she soothed. "It will get better; believe me. After you have a final court order, you'll both know what to expect. Meanwhile, what did you think about that settlement proposal I sent you last week?"

After calming Jim down and hanging up, Deb next dialed Claire Thompson, Jim's soon-to-be ex-wife.

"Oh, Deb! You won't believe what happened last night! Jim was such a
jerk!
The nerve of him, thinking he could just come and pick up my daughter after school. I mean, even if he's always done it that way and even if she asked him to, that doesn't mean he should do it now. He should know that things just aren't going to be the same around here!" she ranted in a high-pitched voice. "Just who does he think he is?"

Probably just a dad who misses his daughter,
Deb thought, feeling more like a baby-sitter than a professional.

"He's a menace; that's all there is to it! And my child is unsafe to be with him. He needs to be supervised at all times!" Blah, blah, blah. Ms. Thompson droned on, desperately trying to justify her contemptuous attitude toward her husband.

Deb's brain flashed to an image of the Thompsons as eight-year-old children ....
Each of them held a rubber club in their hands and stood in separate corners of an arena.

Deb stood at the center between them, dressed in a tight neon-yellow T-shirt, short shorts, and a whistle in her mouth. Her taut, toned body glistened with sweat as she let out a loud blast on the whistle. As the parents relentlessly battled each other, Deb watched in wonder and tried to stay out of the way.

"Are you listening to me, Deb?" Claire asked.

Deb turned her attention to the task at hand. "By the way, Claire, what did you think about my settlement proposal?"

People get so angry with each other,
Deb thought as her attention turned from the Thompsons to Mac and Linda.
I wonder how much would it take to kill someone you once loved?

After Deb left, Pat sat at the Black Cat enjoying her second cup of coffee and waiting for her favorite parish nurse, Esther Marie, to show up. They always met Tuesday to catch up on parish news, and they realized early on that it was better to meet away from the church. Looking toward the door, she saw LeSeur stride in, talking to one of his young officers. Pat tried to will herself invisible and quickly looked down at the
Daily Press
in front of her on the table. "Don't let him see me," she silently called to the powers that be in her best Swami Ji imitation. Peeking over her paper, she saw LeSeur standing before her, arms crossed and feet planted firmly.
Guess I'll have to practice that one a bit,
she thought wryly.
This does not look good.

"So,
Pastor
Pat," he said curtly, "I've just been having an interesting chat with Carl Carlson. You remember him? The board president for Big Top?"