Too Much at Stake (16 page)

"Who came?" Deb asked, trying to understand the facts.

"Stupid Sal and that Detective LeSeur guy," Linda replied.

"Did they arrest him?" Deb asked solicitously.

"No, they let him go. But they kept him there for hours. It took most of the afternoon, and I was beside myself the whole time, trying to think of who I could call—who I could hire to represent him. Even though they did it to me, I still can't believe the police can just take someone away like that, without charging him with a crime. I've learned more about the cops than I ever wanted to know!"

"Well, they can," Deb said matter-of-factly, "if he gave permission. Did he say he wanted to talk to them?"

"Oh, you know Forrest," Linda continued. "He's just so amiable, and he doesn't appreciate the risk. He just said, 'Mom, I have nothing to hide. There is no harm in just talking to them. After all, I know my dad better than almost anyone.' Then he paused and said, 'Knew ... he's dead. Better than anyone but you.' And when Forrest makes up his mind to do something, there's just no stopping him. So he went voluntarily." Linda looked at Deb imploringly.

"But why do you think that Forrest would be of any serious interest in their investigation?" Pat asked. "You don't possibly think Forrest could have had anything to do with his father's death?"

"Someone must have spilled the beans about Mac and Forrest being at each other," Linda explained.

"What do you mean, 'at each other'?" Deb asked.

"Last September, right after Old Last Night, things came to a head between the two of them. There had been tensions brewing for a while, and then everything sort of just boiled over. They had this huge fight out in the field by the barn. It all happened so fast that it seemed like it came out of nowhere, like a volcano erupting."

"But it's normal for young men to break away from their fathers at Forrest's age. And it's usually not so pretty," Pat stated calmly. "It just doesn't follow that a petty quarrel could lead to such an act of violence. Were you there for this argument? Did Forrest threaten his dad or anything?"

"No, but there was a lot of screaming and yelling. It scared the bejeebers out of me, seeing those two going at it like that. It was just so out of character for both of them."

"What was it about?" Deb asked.

"Oh, Mac was on Forrest's case again about his music. He had invited Forrest a while ago to join the tour and go on the road, but Forrest refused. Said he didn't want to hitch his wagon to Mac's but wanted to make his own way in the world. It was just a lot for Mac to swallow, I guess. I think the guilt just got too much for him. It was probably all those years of being away while Forrest was growing up. It was like all of a sudden those lost years just caught up with him, and he realized that he hadn't had much influence over the kind of man Forrest had become. Trying to turn back the clock, I guess."

Linda held her hands around her cup of coffee, as if to warm them, even on this bright spring day. "The kicker came when Mac made the mistake of dragging me into it; he said that Forrest was still too tied to my apron strings. That was just too much for Forrest. And then Forrest said some mean things, accusing Mac of mistreating me over the years."

"So how did the fight end?" Deb asked. "Did they come to blows?"

"No, just a lot of kicking dust around and strong statements being yelled that neither one of them meant. The last thing I remember is Forrest's yelling at his dad, 'I never want to see you in these parts again!' And then Mac spun his wheels down the road."

"I can see why you're worried, Linda," Pat said consolingly. "But even though it looked and sounded bad, an argument like that still doesn't usually lead to murder. At least, that's how I see it. And I'll bet Sal sees it that way too."

"Did anyone else witness this fight?" Deb asked. She scratched her head.

"Oh, I'm sure there were several people at the Tent site. As I recall, the grounds crew was taking all the equipment out of the backstage area and putting it away for the winter. Phil was there and a few others. They were mostly trying to ignore it all. There were probably three or four others who heard it."

Deb patted Linda's arm reassuringly. "I agree with Pat," she said, hoping to sound convincing.
No way am I going to tell her what I really think. It's such a slippery slope once the police bring you in.
"Let's wait and see if any other information comes out before we panic and assume that Forrest is responsible for Mac's death. Let's just wait and see what the day brings." She patted Linda's arm once more, telling her, "We are glad we could be here for you. I wish we could do more. Call us any time. Anyway, I have a wedding to do today, and you don't," she said to Pat, doing her best to lighten the heavy mood. "I can't believe that I agreed to do weddings for the judge. And Sam is going to be taking the pictures. I just love his work!"

Deb was surprised to see Linda blush at the mention of Sam's name.
I wonder why?
she thought.

"Have fun, Deb, and don't forget—you're meeting me at Carl's house today after your wedding. He wants to talk."

"I'll do my best to be there by three," Deb replied. She gathered up her purse and sweater and prepared to face another Friday by the big lake, leaving Pat and Linda to finish their coffee.

"So," Pat said after Deb's exit, "where do you think Forrest would like to have a little memorial service for his dad? At the church?" She reached over and put her hand on Linda's.

"Well, we talked about it. For me, it's kind of awkward, but some of the people at the Tent really think it would be a good idea. Frankly, I just can't think about it. Life has just gotten so crazy." She sipped from her cup.

"Listen, I know this is a challenge for you. First of all, I want to tell you how much I admire the way you're handling this. Wait a little, if you have to. You can leave most of it in my hands, if you want. I'll talk to the house band. They might be able to play for a service, and I know Carl would read scripture. Trust me. You can call me Monday, and we'll talk about it then. You have enough to handle with Forrest and everything's being up in the air, l et alone your own grief."

Linda sniffed. "Thanks for understanding. I don't think anyone realizes that just because we weren't together anymore, that doesn't mean I don't still feel for him, you know?"

"Oh, I do know, and so do all the divorced or separated people in this town. Don't worry. Plenty of people understand and want to help if they can. But for now, let's drink a toast." Pat raised her cup. "To the father of a great son; to a man who could make beautiful music; and to a person we wish to remember with love."

To that, they clinked their cups.

Deb worried as she looked at her watch on the drive to the Marina.
I have to hurry, or I'm going to be late to meet Marc.
The wedding had gone well, after the groom arrived fifteen minutes late. It had been all Deb could do to calm the mother of the bride.

Half an hour later, Deb was struggling to put up the spinnaker pole, fumbling to find the notch for the long metal pipe that Marc had insisted was right in front of her face. Deb shook her hair in the warm breeze.

The wind was 10 to 12 knots, according to Marc; perfect for testing the mettle of the little rocket after a winter of forced rest. Deb never thought in knots; To her it was just a "nice breeze."

"Come on, Deb, you can do it!" urged Marc. "It just snaps on like a cap on a bottle. Then all you have to do is tie a quick bowline knot, and you're all set!"

"A what?" Deb replied anxiously, a look of confusion on her face.

"Oh, Deb, don't tell me you don't remember how. After all those hours we spent practicing with the kids, surely you can remember. They all know how to do it."

"Don't tell me what I should remember!" Deb snapped. "You know how hard all this technical stuff is for my brain. It's just not as easy as it looks." Marc rolled his eyes.

Deb loved being out on the big lake. She loved the light as it sparkled on the waves like miniature diamonds; loved the feel of the breeze caressing her body and the warm sun on her face. She loved the peace and quiet, just the two of them for as far as the eye could see; loved being taken away to a place where they could leave all worries behind.

If only I didn't have to do the grunt work,
Deb thought. Despite all their years together and all of Marc's earnest effort, she still had only acquired a rudimentary sense of the art of sailing.
Marc has a PhD in sailing knowledge,
Deb thought,
and I still haven't graduated from kindergarten. And today, it shows.

Deb closed her eyes, and her mind flashed to the warm blue seas of the tropics .

She pictured herself on a long sleek houseboat with a crew of three aboard: captain, first mate, and gourmet cook. She was lounging on the deck, smartly dressed in bikini, sunglasses, and sunhat, sipping a margarita. A handsome young chef stepped out of the galley and held out a tray of freshly prepared stuffed shrimp.

Marc sat on the side of the boat, contentedly tending the fishing line he had hanging over the side. Reggae music played softly from the galley.

"Can I do anything for you?"
the chef asked solicitously.

Deb sighed and shook her head, feeling the warm sun and breezes on her face. Relaxed ... relaxed ... relaxed.

Suddenly, she felt cold Lake Superior water splashing on her face.

"Just pull on that sheet over there—quick!" Marc said, a note of urgency creeping into his voice.

Sheet?
Deb thought frantically.
Is that a sail?
She pulled hard on the edge of the jib, the front sail on the boat, looking back at Marc with a look of triumph on her face.

"No, not that!" Marc said with exasperation. Before he could continue, a head wind came upon them, and the two of them found themselves flying overboard, and
Hot Sauce
turtled upside down in the water.

As Deb hurled backward into the still-chilly waters, she caught a glimpse of Marc being thrown sideways, a look of helpless surprise on his face. Then it was all water.

"Help!" Deb yelled, panic in her voice.

They bobbed like two ducks in water, as they both were wearing their life vests. Marc went immediately into rescue mode. Deb managed to quell her panic, remembering the practice drills Marc had forced her to do so many times with the kids, in order to take away the fear of drowning.

Stay with the boat. Don't let go,
she thought, managing to once again swallow a mouthful of water.

Marc was quickly at her side and holding her up. Deb looked at his sopping wet clothes and thought of the absurdity of the two of them floating on top of two hundred feet of water. She burst into laughter.

Marc appeared insulted at first. "So you think this is funny? My boat could be ruined! What about my spinnaker pole?"

"Oh, honey, don't worry. I have so much confidence in you," she cajoled, trying to stop laughing. "Here we are, alive together. At the moment, we own this lake."

A bemused expression crossed Marc's face as he quickly realized that Deb was actually
enjoying
the moment with him; she was enjoying this little sailing disaster, even though her worst fear had been realized. Marc grabbed Deb's hand and pulled her to the turtled boat.

"Come on, mate, let's get this little pot turned over," he said, with a lilt in his voice. He pushed Deb playfully over the top of the boat.

Just as they got
Hot Sauce
righted again, a loud "cigarette"—a sleek racing boat—pulled up next to them. Heinrich Wilson threw them a line.

"Do you need some help?" Heinrich asked. "I saw you go over into the drink."

"No, we'll be fine," Deb assured him. "Marc knows what he's doing. Pretty nice boat you're driving there. Whose boat is that?"

"Mine," Heinrich replied sheepishly, feeling embarrassed about owning such a toy.

"How does a starving artist afford such a monster?" Deb asked, not caring if she seemed nosey.
Did I just say that?
she thought.
Must have been the shock of the cold water.

"Maybe Monty wasn't the only one with secrets," Heinrich replied mysteriously.

"Thanks for the offer of help," Marc interjected. "We'll be fine. See you on shore!"

Waving good-bye, Heinrich flew off over the waves toward the lighthouse, like an eagle streaking off to a fish.