Too Much at Stake (13 page)

"Of course I remember him," she snapped. "I may be older than you, but I am not in my dotage yet, and as I'm not your pastor, you can just call me Pat."

"Interesting thing," LeSeur continued, as if he hadn't heard her, "is not where he was or what he was doing but what he seemed to feel—that it was the consensus of the Big Top board that you and your busybody friend were 'investigating'—yes, that was his word exactly: investigating — this death. Of course I reassured him that we had talked and that you do not have a PI license. In fact, you could be arrested if you impeded this investigation." His voice had risen from its usual calm tone to one of stern authority.

Pat glanced at his sidekick, who was trying not to laugh at Pat's dressing down. "Wait just a minute," she replied, consciously keeping her voice down. "Since when do you accept secondhand information as truth?"

"Since Sal had Linda picked up for questioning this morning, and he's got reporters all over his jail. And a crew is searching her house right now."

"Oh, my gosh! Linda is in jail?" Pat jumped up. "I've got to call Deb. Where is that darn cell phone?" She reached frantically into her pocket.

"No," said LeSeur, pushing her back down in her seat. "You need to let Sal do his work. You need to take up quilting, or crochet, or even looking at porn on the Internet, for God's sake. Anything to keep you busy!"

She stared up at him, speechless, his hand still warningly on her shoulder.

"Hi, Pat ... Gary. Nice day, isn't it?" They both looked startled as Esther Marie stood smiling at them—although her sharp eye had taken in the hand on Pat's shoulder, and she felt the tension in the air. "Hey, Gary," she continued, as if she hadn't noticed anything amiss, "are you coaching Little League again this year?"

LeSeur took his hand off Pat's shoulder, like a small boy being caught by the teacher. "Yeah, I am."

Esther slid into a chair. "I remember when my husband was your coach. Do you remember? You were so cute, but you would get so mad, stomping your little feet when you struck out or missed the ball. Of course, you're not that little boy anymore, are you?" she said with a knowing smile. "You're a police detective now, for goodness sakes, and a good one, too."

He looked at her, and his face flushed. "Have a nice coffee, ladies," he said, looking at Pat. "Stick to burying folks, and I'll stick to how they got dead in the first place." He strode out, forgetting his coffee, with his junior officer trailing behind.

"Wow, looks like you're making more friends around town," Esther joked.

Pat just shrugged and took another sip of her coffee.

Fifteen miles north, in the same gray rectangular room where Deb and Pat had been interrogated, Sal and Linda sat across from one another.

"Now you understand, Linda, that I just asked you in for routine questioning. I will be questioning everyone who might be involved with this death. By the way, I want you to know that I'm sorry for your loss." Sal cleared his throat. "But just to keep everything straight, I'm going to tape record our conversation. Is that all right with you? And also, I am bound to inform you that you have the right to remain silent and to have your attorney present, and that if you waive such rights, everything you say can be used against you in a court of law. Is that clear?"

"Sal, thank you, but this is not my loss. Mac and I were finished a long time ago. I'll help in any way I can but frankly, I don't know anything about his band or who he owed money to. I wasn't even there when they found him." She stretched out her feet in front of her. "Got any more of that coffee?"

The intercom buzzed on Sal's desk. He chose to ignore it, but it sounded again.

"Hey, boss! There are reporters out here!" Suzie said excitedly.

"Put them in the cooler," Sal answered. He got up and shut the door. "Coffee? Oh, sure, let me pour you a cup. It's with cream, isn't it? It's funny how many things people know about each other in a small town. Like your using cream in your coffee, and how Forrest is Mac's son." He handed her the coffee and noticed her face had reddened. "Now don't get all hot under the collar. That was a long time ago, and everyone knows you are a great mother. But I still have to ask you the questions. Are you ready?"

Linda took the cup from his hand. "Yeah, I know you're right. But this is so unreal. But if I was going to kill the bastard, don't you think I would have done it years ago, when it mattered?"

"Linda," Sal said sitting down across from her, "this is serious." Turning on the tape recorder, he said, "This is Tuesday, May 22, at 10:45. What is your name?"

"What is my name? You know my name." Seeing his exasperated face, she continued. "Linda Johnson."

"And what is your address?"

"Top of Ski Hill Road, Bayfield."

"And were you at the Tent on September first last year at Old Last Night?"

"Of course I was, Sal. You know that. You were there with your new wife."

"Just answer the question."

"Yes, I was, and so was half of Bayfield. Just ask me what you really want to know. Ask me if I killed him."

"Did you?"

"Are you
crazy?
He was a run-around bastard who couldn't keep his eyes off a pretty girl to save his soul. Lord, how many times I wished that he could have. But it just wasn't in him. So, did I want to just get him out of our lives sometimes? Yes, I did. But did I kill him? You just try to pin that one on me, Sal, and you'll be sorry."

"Settle down. So your answer is no? You didn't kill him?"

"Damn straight."

"So where was Forrest on that night? Was he with you?"

Suddenly, it got very quiet in the room. Linda folded her arms and closed her eyes. "I've changed my mind. I will not answer your stupid questions."

"Linda, are you refusing to answer my question?"

Linda opened her eyes, pressed her lips tightly together, and, standing up, threw her coffee on Sal's new white shirt. "I want to see my lawyer!" she said loudly.

The day had been a long one for Deb, so it was a relief to leave the office and pick up the boys from their tennis match in Bayfield. She loved the noisy boyness in her van. Turning her head, she called out, "Boys, I've got to stop to pick up a recipe for Pat. It'll just take a minute."

"Like you ever cook!" Eric smirked. Then he groaned. "Mom, we're starving."

"Like that's something new!" Deb retorted gaily. "I swear I'm buying enough groceries for the whole team."

"Growing boys, Mom, growing boys," Bruno sang out.

She loved hearing Bruno call her "Mom." She turned into Linda's driveway, turned off the ignition, and jumped out of the car. "Be back in a jif!" She threw the boys a bag of chips. "This will hold you over."

As she shut the door, Deb could hear Eric trying to explain to Bruno what she'd meant by "jif."

Linda opened the door, looking a little confused and a lot like she hadn't slept for days. "Oh, hi, Deb. Did I forget something?"

"No, no," Deb reassured her quickly, entering the cozy A-frame. The large open room was furnished sparsely in rustic pine. "I hope you don't mind that I stopped by. Pat said you had a recipe and story for the church cookbook, and I offered to get it. Is this a good time?"

Linda's tired face lightened. "Of course. The deadline is coming up, isn't it? Sit down, won't you?" She led Deb toward a large overstuffed lounger in the main room. "I'll just run upstairs and get it. It's all ready."

Deb sat by the stone fireplace. Her head hurt from trying to figure out what could have been used to kill Mac, not the least because it would be sort of fun to figure it out before the police or Pat did. Sighing, she shook her head and leaned back in the soft chair.
Face it, girl, it could have been anything. There are probably a million things in a house that could be used to hit someone over the head. We might never figure it out.

Deb wondered what the police had looked for when they searched this house. She sighed again.
Good thing they didn't search our house,
she thought.
The way it looks lately, they might get lost in the mess and never be found again!

Linda came quickly back into the room. "Thanks for picking this up. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"I would love it, but I have two voracious tennis players waiting in the van." Looking back at the fireplace she asked, "Have you been rearranging? It seems like things are different in here."

"No, the
police
were rearranging. They went through everything." Linda looked around the room, as if it belonged to a stranger. "It felt like being violated. It didn't help that Forrest came home in the middle of it and threw a royal fit. They were pretty good about it, though. At least they tried to put things back in order."

Do I dare ask?
Deb wondered. She hesitated briefly, then said, "May I ask ... did they ... take anything with them?"

"Yes. Don't you see what is missing?" Linda said, pointing to the mantle. "They took my mother's antique candlesticks. Can you imagine?"

"Oh, my gosh," gulped Deb, "shades of Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick." Before she could say anything more, a loud "Mom-m-m!" came from outside the door. Deb smiled. "My boys. The natives are getting restless." She stood up and hugged Linda. "Thanks for the recipe and story," she said, and then as she turned to leave, she called out toward the door, "Coming! Keep your shirts on."

That Thursday night, Deb put on her size-small Big Top fleecy sweatshirt and then called to the boys to get in the car.
Nice to be a small person once again,
she thought happily.
Marc really likes the new me.
After a quick stop at Pat's house to pick her up, they were on their way.

Deb was always excited for New First Night, the opening of the summer tent-show season at Chautauqua. She was especially eager to get to Bayfield on this particular night. It seemed a miracle that the show would even go on this year, what with Monty's death and all the distractions.

Deb expected that tonight would be especially fun. For one thing, it would be Bruno's first time attending a show at the Tent. And this would be one night, for a change, when she and Pat had no responsibilities. They were just going to watch a show as spectators and enjoy themselves.

"Mom, why do you always volunteer at the Tent?" Eric asked from the backseat.

"The show could not go on without volunteers," Deb replied good-naturedly. "Volunteers do everything at Big Top—all the nitty-gritty details of putting on a show. Everything from selling tickets to directing parking, ushering, and selling sweatshirts."

"What's nitty-gritty?" Bruno asked.

Deb glanced at Bruno in the rearview mirror and smiled. "I'll have to think about that one and tell you later."

"What do you like to do best?" Bruno asked.

"Oh, our specialty—mine and Pat's—is selling raffle tickets for the end-of-summer raffle. But that's for another night."

"Right," Pat agreed. "Tonight, we're just going to relax, let go of our worries, and just enjoy the show."

No thoughts of dead bodies, suspects, or that pesky Detective LeSeur,
Deb thought.
None of that is strong enough to stand in the way of the magical musical experience under canvas.