Too Much at Stake (20 page)

"Hello, this is Pastor Pat."

"Hi, Pat. This is Linda. Remember I said I would call today about the memorial service?"

"Of course. I thought I might hear from you today," she replied, feeling guilty for her mean-spirited private thoughts. "Do you want to meet me at the church or just talk on the phone?"

"Oh, no, not at the church. I know it's your day off. I just wanted to touch base with you. Can you plan something for this next week? The coroner has released the body. The house band said they'd play, and Forrest just can't seem to deal with this part at all. He really is just a kid yet."

"Let's plan it for Thursday afternoon, then. That will probably be easier for everyone. How about one o'clock?

"Sounds good. Do you think the ladies will be able to make a lunch?"

"Probably not a lunch."
Like that would happen.
"But I'm sure they'd be more than happy to serve coffee and cake. Does that sound all right?"

"Okay by me. Should I call Esther Marie?"

"Don't bother. You have enough on your plate. I'll take care of that, and Wendy will make sure it gets in the paper. Do you want me to run the service by you before I print it?"

"No, please just do it. And if you could make it a kind of celebration of his life, that would seem more meaningful for us."

"You bet. And Linda, if there's anything else ..."

"Thanks, Pat. I know you mean it. Just try to solve this thing will you? Before we all go crazy."

I guess this mystery will just have to wait,
Pat thought, putting her book aside.
At least the fictional one.

That night, the best friends pulled into the Tent parking lot with Deb's boys.

"Thanks, boys, for coming with us again," Pat called into the backseat. "It is a real treat to see the legend Willie Nelson."

"You buy the food, I come," Eric replied.

The food-service people were busy serving the early patrons. One of the pleasures of the Tent was to come early for shows, just to sit leisurely in the nice weather at the picnic tables and have a sandwich and a beer or two. Pat looked over at the table reserved for volunteers—it was already filling up with ticket sellers, car-lot organizers, and ushers who were getting a quick bite before beginning their chores. Music was playing over the PA system. Pat recognized Willie Nelson's famous Stardust bus as she, Deb, Eric, and Bruno wound their way up to the food counter.

"What'll it be?" the smiling woman asked Eric and Bruno. "Eating fish boil tonight?"

The two teens didn't hear because they were arguing about cars.

"Two grilled chicken salads," Deb said. "And two beers," Deb and Pat said at once. "Jinx!" they both added, turning to each other with a smile. Deb turned back to the boys. "Stop the car talk and answer the nice woman."

"Oh, sorry, Mom. Burger basket for me and my friend here." Eric smiled at the server. He turned back to Bruno. "Say whatever you want. You'll never convince me the Beemer isn't the greatest car."

"Boys!" said the server, shaking her head as she watched them walk away. "Boys and cars. What a love affair. Do you know what they want to drink?"

"Make it two Cokes," Deb answered. "Sorry about that."

"Hey, I've got boys of my own. Say! Carl was looking for you two a minute ago. Said to meet him in the star RV. You must really rate," she said a little enviously.

Pat and Deb looked at each other. "Boys, we're taking our food to meet Carl," Deb called out. "Be good."

The boys, busy talking about driver's license requirements in different countries while scoping the crowd for girls, didn't bother to answer.

"I've always wondered what the RV looks like inside," Pat admitted, juggling her food and drink as she walked. "Is it a palace on wheels?"

"Maybe," Deb replied. "Whatever it is, we'll soon find out. It's a good thing that it's only good old Carl we're meeting, because in one of those old mysteries you love to read, this is where the killer would get us."

"Nah, he would have gotten us already, in his kitchen with the carving knife!" Pat joked.

They laughed companionably as they walked out to the field where the trailer was parked.

Pat sobered and looked at Deb. "Except I don't think the killer is ever a portly older Swede, like Carl. What's he going to do? Tie us both up?"

The motorhome door was open, even though it was a cool night, as if he had been watching for them. "Good of you to come," he said jovially. "I see you brought your dinner. Me, too. Here, come on in and sit at the table, where famous people have eaten their favorite foods—everything from oysters to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We really do try to give them what they want before a performance." He held the screen door open for them.

"Are you sure we can come in?" Pat asked as she hesitated on the step. "Won't Willie mind?"

"Willie? Why would—oh, I see. Willie doesn't use this one. He brings his own. But don't be too disappointed," he said, seeing their faces fall. "Plenty of other stars have used it. Here, pull up a chair. Need a fork or anything?"

"No, we've got the good old plastic stuff with us," Deb said, waggling her plastic fork in the air. Her eyes drank in all the treasures in the trailer. "Wow! Are these real signatures of people who have stayed here?" She moved over to a board on a wall. "Garrison Keillor, B.B. King, Joan Baez . look, Pat, here's Waylon Jennings. And who's this? I can't make it out."

"Where?" asked Carl, coming over to stand behind her. "Oh, that's the Chinese acrobats. They didn't all actually stay in here overnight, of course. Come on; you can look later. Let's sit and eat, and you can fill me in."

"Oh, darn, I forgot napkins," Pat said as she sat down. "Can I move this roll of tape?" She picked up a large roll of duct tape that was on the table.

"Now what in the world is that doing here?" Carl asked. "I'm going to have to talk to the crew about using this place, I can see. Sure, let me put it on the counter. And here are some napkins, compliments of the house." With a flourish he took them out of a drawer.

"You really know your way around this bus. How come?" Deb asked.

"Actually, I helped pick this baby out." He patted the wall fondly, as if it were a pet, and then joined them at the table. "Yes, sir, even put some of my own money into her." He leaned forward on his elbows, forgetting about his food. "Nothing's too good for the Tent. I've been with it from the beginning, you know. It's been my constant through several jobs and several wives." He smiled, and sat up once more, picking up his fork.

"This is an important part of Americana, a piece of living history. Nobody should be able to hurt it. That's why this . this disturbance is so irritating." His face flushed and he grew visibly agitated. "Nobody!" He banged his hand on the table while still holding the fork, and food flew toward Pat.

Wow, what's gotten into him?
Pat thought. She was taken aback by his outburst but didn't react to it. Instead, she wiped mayonnaise off the table in front of her and asked quietly, "Is that why you asked us here, Carl? Because this death might threaten your place at the Tent? Don't you want to know who killed Mac? To see justice done?"

"Huh?" Carl looked at her, startled by his own reaction. He seemed a million miles away, as if he had forgotten they were there. "Oh, right. Forgive my soapbox. I just love this place." He picked up his sandwich and took a bite. "So what have you learned?" he asked with his mouth full. "Any ideas on who did in the victim?"

"Mac," Pat corrected. "Mac was his name. You knew him well, didn't you?"

"Of course ... I just meant ... it's hard to think of it as someone I knew."

"I heard you had been friends at the beginning—you, Linda, and Mac. But you had a falling out; is that right?"

"No, well, yes, sort of. The Fiddlers were one of the first big acts we had booked at the Tent. And I got to know them. But Mac started running around on Linda right away. I hated that. You can understand—a man with a woman pregnant. And Linda is a wonderful girl—woman, I mean. Everyone liked Linda. Half the guys were in love with her."

"Were you?" Deb asked quietly.

"Was I? What?" He looked google-eyed at Deb. "In love with Linda?" His face flushed again, and the women imagined his blood pressure was rising.

Looks like he's gonna blow,
Pat thought. But outwardly, she appeared mild as she looked him straight in the eyes.

"Well?"

There was silence in the bus, and then Carl sat back in his chair as he tried to smile and only half succeeded. "Of course. You're investigating. Natural to ask questions, even of me. Otherwise, it wouldn't be thorough, now, would it? Let me see . it was so long ago." He paused as if trying to remember, but the friends weren't buying whatever he was selling. Deb kicked Pat under the table.

He remembers, all right,
Deb thought,
or he wouldn't have gotten so upset.

"Sure, I guess I was half in love with her then, like most of the boys. We were young hot-bloods. But to answer your question properly, I felt protective of her."

Once again it grew quiet, but Pat kept probing.

She's like someone with a sore tooth,
Deb thought,
who can't keep her tongue from touching the aching spot.

"But you didn't like him much, did you?" Pat asked. "All these years, and you've tried to fill in for him with Forrest. You know, anger can be a great motivator; it can cause us problems sometimes, if we keep it all in. So, Carl, what was it like to play second fiddle in a woman's affections, huh? And what's it like to always be taken for granted?"

Deb looked at Pat like she had lost her marbles. Here was the guy who had asked them to look into the murder, and she was ...
What is it that she's doing?

"What is this?" he demanded. "I've come to help, to cooperate, to save the Tent from disgrace. And you . are you using some kind of pop psychology on me? Accusing me? Me, who loves this place?" He turned to Deb, looking for rescue. "Deb, you know me. You were board president before me. You tell her."

But Deb was speechless.
I don't know where she's going with this,
she thought,
but I think our guest p asses to this bus are gone from now on.

He rose abruptly from the table, almost knocking over his chair. "Well, just never mind. It was stupid of me to trust two crazy meddling women with something so important. I thought we were friends, Deb. Good day, ladies—and I use the term loosely. Close the door when you're done. And I needn't remind you," he said over his shoulder, "that some of these things in here are priceless .
and
they're accounted for!" Sticking his cap firmly on his mop of gray hair, he stomped out of the door, slamming it so hard it was heard all the way to the food tent.

The two women stared silently at each other, and then Pat picked up her fork and speared a piece of chicken.

"Well, that was interesting," Pat said.

"Better look at everything in here, because my bet is we'll never see the inside of this baby again," Deb grumbled. Taking a bite of her salad, she looked at her friend and smiled. "Accounted for? Do we look like thieves?" A thoughtful expression came over her face as she looked around the room. "You know, I just thought of something. Some of this stuff is worth some dough. What do you think?"

Pat stopped eating and looked around appraisingly. "Depends. Actually, we never thought of it from that angle. Now that you mention it, there are lots of items that really might be collectors' items."

A sudden bang on the door startled her so much, she spilled her coffee.

"Hallo! Anyone in?"

"Come on in," Deb called out, recognizing the voice. "But if you're looking for Willie, he is in his own trailer."

The door opened, letting in a cool breeze and a hairy bear of a man. "Good. Someone said I'd find you two here," Jack said, smiling behind his bushy beard. "Say, could you help me out? At the pre-show I'm doing some joke magic tricks, and Phil said you two were good sports."

"What do you need?" Pat asked, putting down her cup.

"Well, it's a little silly, but I sort of use these handcuffs to lock you to your chairs." He showed them two sets of handcuffs. "And the house band does some jokes about you two ..." He saw the look of concern on their faces and hastily added, "It's all in good fun. Then, after the laughs, I pretend the trick doesn't work. I can't get you out, and I shrug and walk off stage. Laugh, laugh, and laugh. Pat, you struggle, but Deb, you just yawn and calmly reach over and touch the cuff here." He pointed to a spot. "And presto, they fall off. You take the tape off your mouth, leaving Pat's on. Oh, did I forget to mention the tape? And bow. Applause, applause. What do you think?"

Deb laughed. "Come on, Pat," she said punching her gently on the arm. "You know you love being up on stage.

What have we got to lose?" She smiled winningly at her friend. "Besides, the boys will get a kick out of it. Something for Bruno to write home to Paraguay about."

Pat smiled in spite of herself. "Okay, but why the heck am I the one who gets the tape left on her mouth? What's so funny about that?"