Too Much at Stake (21 page)

The other two just looked at each other, trying not to laugh.

"Tell the band we're in," Deb said. "And tell Phil if it gets a good laugh, he owes us one at Patsy's."

"Okay, so come five minutes before the show, and I'll tell you what to do. Thanks a lot! You're good sports. Oh, I've got to grab a bite. Will you bring this stuff with you when you come? Thanks again. Bye!" Jack went happily out the door.

Pat finished her salad and picked up the plastic dishes, looking around for a garbage can, and absentmindedly picked up the cuffs. "I've always wondered how these trick things work. Where was that release button again?"

Deb stood next to her and pointed. "It's sort of here, but they have to be engaged, I think, to have the button stick up."

Pat put one on her wrist. "Like this, you mean?"

"No," Deb replied, picking up the other set and trying one on her own wrist. "I think you have to lock both wrist manacles in order for it to work. Like this." She took the other cuff and locked that one, too. "See? Of course, it's not really funny unless you put the tape on your mouth so you can't yell at him when it doesn't work."

"What's so funny about that?" Pat asked, looking at the second wrist cuff and trying to find the button.

Deb smiled. "Pat, everyone knows how much you like to talk," she said. "Take my word; it'll be funny." She picked up the large roll of red tape with her two cuffed hands and waved. "Here—let me show you," she teased.

Grabbing the roll away from Deb, Pat ripped off a piece with her teeth and stuck it on Deb's mouth.

"Hey," Deb mumbled through the tape, although it easily started to break away from her face. "That's not funny."

"Oh," said Pat, dancing back a little. "It seems funny to me." And she started to laugh. "Uh-oh, don't make me laugh. You know what happens when an old lady laughs too hard. Carl definitely did not say we could use the star's bathroom." She did her "If I hold my knees together, maybe I won't have to change my pants" dance.

Laughing now, too, Deb ripped part of the tape off and managed to put some on Pat's mouth. "There." She sat down and said smugly, "Now
that's
funny."

Pat pulled off the tape and sat down. The two women laughed like two hyenas, with their hands still in the cuffs.

Suddenly, they heard the big engine of the RV roar.

"What the ...?" said Pat, standing up just as the big bus went into gear. "What's going on?" She instantly realized that trying to stand up in a moving vehicle when her hands were handcuffed was no easy feat.

Deb frantically pulled at her cuffs, which instead of opening were tightening. "They won't come off!"

Pat lurched over to her friend, desperately holding on to the counter as the RV started to move down the hill.

"Who's driving this damn thing?" Pat spat out.

"Swearing, Pat?"

"You're damned right! Press this button, will you? I can't seem to reach it."

Deb reached out to press the spot. It might have worked if the RV hadn't just then hit a gigantic gopher hole and lurched sideways. They both fell in a heap the other way. It was a tangle of body parts and clothing as they hit the floor.

"Ouch!" Pat hit her head on a counter with a very sharp edge. "That's going to leave a bump. I'm beginning to not like this thing at all."

"Help!" yelled Deb, ripping off the rest of the tape that was stuck to her face. "Help! Stop!" Rolling over, she caught her cuffs on the chair leg as she tried to get loose. "Help, somebody!"

Pat struggled by pushing against Deb's backside. She managed to catch hold of the counter, despite the fact that the RV was now picking up speed as it crossed the bumpy field. "Mitchell is never going to believe this one," she groaned. "We'll never live this down."

"
If
we live," snapped Deb, still a prisoner to the chair leg. Her rear end was stuck up in the air. "Did it occur to you that it could be the killer who's driving this thing?"

"I don't care who it is," Pat answered, staggering toward the front panel attached to the cab. "I'm making him stop before he gets us out in the woods somewhere." Picking up Bruce Burnside's banjo case—and not caring if it was a collector's item—she banged on the wall with it.
Carl will not like this,
she thought grimly.

In the cab, Eric and Bruno looked questioningly at each other. "What in the world?" gasped Eric, who was at the wheel. "Did we hit something, or did something come loose in the back?"

Bruno shrugged his shoulders. "Not that I saw. We would have known if a deer had come out in front of us, right? You didn't hit a deer?" Bruno had become obsessed with the number of deer that people seemed to hit in Wisconsin on the roads.

Then it came again:
BANG, BANG, BANG!

Eric swerved onto the little dirt road at the bottom of the hill, stopping just as he hit the one mailbox within five miles.

"Well, we definitely hit something now!" Bruno yelled. "Mi Dios, pense que Ibamos a morir!"

"Oh, snap!" Eric said, stepping hard on the brake. "If we wrecked the RV, Mom's going to take my driving privileges away for the rest of my life."

"And to think I thought about driving," Bruno mumbled, looking scared. "That would have sent me home to Paraguay."

Turning in the seat to his friend, Eric replied, "If you go, can I come, too?"

In the back, Pat fell down once again as they crashed against the mailbox.

Moments later, a voice could be heard outside, swearing quietly. "Who locked this flipping door?"

"Help!" yelled Deb.

Pat remained quiet—she'd recognized the voice.
Now, Lord, would be a good time. Take me now,
she silently prayed. The door was pulled open by a very surprised Detective LeSeur. Behind him were two scared boys.

"Gosh, it's Mom and Pat," Eric said, his voice shaking. "Mom, really, Phil just asked me to move it. It's not my fault."

"What in the world? Are you hurt? Who handcuffed you?" LeSeur asked.

Pat and Deb looked at each other. "It's really not our fault!" they said together.

Detective LeSeur had a lot of professional experience removing handcuffs. He helped the women out of the bus, freed them of their cuffs, and then wrote out a ticket for Eric. "And I don't want to see you driving until that license is in your hand," he said as he handed the ticket to the boy. As he turned to leave, they heard him mumbling, "I've got to find a different place to do a little volunteer work. Something easier, like maybe ... doing the Polar Plunge. Jumping into the big lake in January would be easier than this!"

Deb grimaced as she watched him walk off, laughing and shaking his head.
Sure, we weren't kidnapped,
she thought,
but someone did lock the door. I wonder who?

Pat's cell phone rang as she was driving to the church. "Didn't I turn that thing off?" she grumbled, trying to grab it from her bag. "Hello? Oh, damn!" she swore as she dropped the phone. Fumbling across the seat, she found it again and asked breathlessly, "Are you still there? Sorry; I dropped the damn thing."

"Tsk-tsk, swearing on the phone, pastor?" Peter said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "I suppose it's because you were ... what? Locked in a mobile home? I've got to tell you, Agatha Christie couldn't have written it better." His deep belly laugh rang out loud and clear.

Pat pulled into the church lot, glancing to see which other cars were there. She did not want to have this conversation inside the church, where the staff might overhear it, not because she wanted hide it, but because they would probably laugh, too.
I get no respect,
she thought.

"Listen," she said teasingly, "I'm a married woman, so you have to quit calling me like this. In addition to all the teasing I've endured this morning already, I feel like I've been in a train wreck. The good thing about a small town is that everyone knows your business and—"

"And the bad news is that everyone knows your business!" Peter said, jumping in.

"Besides," Pat grumbled, "how did you find out already?"

"Oh, I have my ways. We spies have spies."

"I'll just bet it was that darn LeSeur. Can't he mind his own business?"

"Actually, his question to me was, 'Can't those two biddies mind their own business?' It was a good laugh. Everyone here in the office enjoyed it immensely. We're thinking of putting it on YouTube." Then he sobered. "Seriously, Pat, I thought I'd warn you. Did someone lock that darn door, or could you have managed to lock it yourself by mistake?"

"No," Pat insisted. "Carl was there, but he left while we were still inside. I suppose anyone could have done it."

"Remember that, oh, wise lady.
Anyone
could have done it. And next time it won't be so funny."

Pat felt like a cloud had gone over the sun.

"I know it won't do any good," Peter continued, "but I'll say it anyway. Give this up. It won't be so funny on You-Tube if you're dead." And with that, he hung up.

The sheriff's department in Washburn had been so busy with interviews and news reporters coming in that Suzie could hardly keep up with her online chat groups.

Give me the good old days,
she lamented to herself,
when the biggest thing that happened was a speeding ticket or a cabin on the lake being vandalized.

Tim and Barry, two members of the Canadian Fiddlers, came through the door. They looked scruffy, as if they hadn't slept all night. Neither of them spoke to Suzie; they simply stood by her desk, staring at her.

"Hey, Sally!" Suzie called out toward the back offices. "Looks like your ten o'clock interviews are here. Should I send them back one at a time or together?"

Sal's weary voice came from the back. "Send them both back. And can't you just please try to use the intercom?"

The two men smirked as they stood by the receptionist.

"Can't you?" she yelled back, nodding her head and indicating they could go back. Smiling to herself, she went back to her paperwork.

"Hello, gentlemen. Thank you for coming in. Please take a seat," Sal said, gesturing to the chairs in front of him.

"Is this going to take long?" Tim asked. "We did a gig last night, and now I just want to hit the sack."

So do I,
Sal thought.
So do I.
He motioned toward two chairs in front of his desk. "Take a seat, and let's get started then."

After a brief interview, Sal excused the two guitarists.
I cannot believe I took this job,
Sal thought as he wearily put his feet up on his desk. He reached for the phone to call his wife to let her know he would be home late, but as he placed his hand on the receiver, the phone rang.

"Mayor on line one!" Suzie yelled from out front.

Why can't that woman use the intercom?
he thought.

He didn't even have the phone to his ear before the mayor started in.

"What the heck is going on over there? Do you realize we've been getting calls from all over the country, asking us if it's safe to come up to Bayfield and the Tent!
Safe?
Our one and only office staff has gone home with a migraine. And the people at the Chamber of Commerce . they can't get any work done because of the calls. When is this going to end? We hired you on LeSeur's recommendation, but you're still on probation. I want you in my office in the morning, to update the city council on the investigation. And you had better have made some progress. I'll bet those two sleuths from Ashland are probably doing a better job."

"Sir, we are doing the best we can," Sal replied, gulping down his anger. "If you want me to waste valuable time talking to those busybodies—no, strike that. I'm sorry. I'm tired and really quite busy. If you want to fire me, do so; otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow morning. Good-bye." He determinedly stopped himself from slamming down the receiver.

It rang again almost as soon as he'd hung up.

Surprisingly, the intercom buzzed. "Hi, boss. LeSeur is on line two. And just for the record, that mayor's been asking for it for a while."

Sal sighed and pressed line one.

"Hi, buddy," he heard as he picked up. "I know you're busy, but I just got some interesting information from a friend in the FBI that I think you need to know."

"I'm never going to get lunch," Sal groaned. "What is the point of having a beautiful wife if I never get to see her?" Looking up, he saw his heart's desire standing in the doorway, smiling. In her hands was a picnic basket. Suddenly, the day didn't seem so bad. "Listen, can I call you back in, say, a half an hour?" He looked up at his wife. "Or make that an hour, okay?"

"I guess this will wait. Call in an hour."

Sal hung up the phone.

"I just thought if you couldn't come home to me, I'd bring you a little something for nourishment," his wife said. Pushing aside the papers on his desk, she laid out a red checkered tablecloth and pulled out homemade soup and bread.

"You're wonderful," he exclaimed, kissing her soundly. At the same time he couldn't help wondering what information was awaiting him from the FBI.