Too Much at Stake (7 page)

"Good luck with that," Terri replied amiably. "Gotta go, Pat. Thanks for the coffee. And keep singing!"

Pat waved good-bye as Terri ambled back to her own yard.

So, Pat, what is it you are feeling?
Drumming her fingers on the table, she delved a little deeper into her thoughts. After all, wasn't that what she told people to do when they came in for counseling? "
What would your feeling be if you knew what it was?"
Or
"Make a list of what you feel, and then explain each item." Stupid,
she chided herself.
Why do I use such stupid techniques? Yet ...

"Woof!" Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of barking. Strider started pulling on his leash once he realized that Deb was walking toward Pat's, where treats were guaranteed.

"Yes, Stridy, we'll be there in a minute. Hang on; you're hurting my arm," she said, pulling firmly on the lead. Just as she got the big golden under control, Pachelbel's Canon in D minor came from her coat pocket—the ringtone on her phone.

"Shoot," she mumbled as she fumbled with the leash and her new cell phone at the same time. She finally managed to answer on the third ring. "Hello?" she squeaked, stumbling over the ancient sidewalk pavers in front of Pat's house.

"Deb? Is that you?" Without waiting for her response, the voice on the other end of the line continued, "This is Salvadore Burrows, over at Bayfield County Sheriff's Department. What I need is—I mean, what you need to do is—heck, what I'm trying to say is that I need you and Pat to come in and talk about the . incident at the Tent.

"Incident?" Deb smiled wryly as she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and tugged on Strider's leash. "I hardly would call a death—a murder—an 'incident.'" Then she took pity on the new young investigator. "Sorry, Sal, but you must admit, he couldn't have rolled himself up in that canvas."

"Yeah, I know. LeSeur has already pointed out that little detail to me. Anyway"—he cleared his throat—"can you two come in? Please?" He sounded more like a schoolboy talking to one of his teachers than the detective in charge of a murder investigation.

"When do you want us to come in? My boys are in tennis now, so I have to be home at three-thirty."

"Well." He stopped a moment, and Deb heard him speaking to someone. "LeSeur is here right now. Could you come in now? Or is Pat too busy at church?"

Deb walked up the steps of her best friend's side deck, smiling at Pat, who was now sitting in the sun, dirty and resting from the hard work of weeding.

"Hey, Pat!" Deb called, pointing to her phone. "It's Sal. Do you think you can pull yourself away from your farming and join me on a trip to Washburn? He wants us to come to his office today to talk about the murder."

"I've got to get cleaned up and go to an Altar Guild meeting right now. How about we leave in about an hour or so?"

Deb gave her friend a thumbs-up and then said into the phone, "I think I can safely say she'd be willing to come today. How about an hour and a half?"

"The day is looking up," Pat said, smiling as Deb snapped her phone shut. "I'll call you when my meeting is over. Are we just going to see Sal, or are we going to buy clothes?" Now that the two of them had gotten in shape, clothes shopping had become a delight.

"Maybe we can stop at the Brownstone Center, if we have time. First we need to take care of business, though, and stop at the sheriff's office."

Pat grinned at her friend.
Yes, indeed,
she thought
. The day is definitely looking up.

Pat ran into the house and quickly changed, but just as she stepped out the front door, the phone rang.

Shoot!
she thought, trying to decide whether to answer it.
I almost made it. Maybe the caller will try my number at the church.

After serving in churches for twenty-five years, Pat knew very well that parish work took up most of her days— and nights, too, when necessary. Usually, she'd hop in her car and rush to the church. But today, in keeping with her "get fit and stay that way, or else" program, she planned to walk to the church—and if she didn't hurry, she would be late.

Lord help the pastor who keeps the Altar Guild waiting! Not answering the phone now,
she decided.
But then again, what if someone is in the hospital, or ...?
She opened the door and ran into the kitchen, picking up the receiver just as it went to dial tone.
Probably just someone calling about the church cookbook,
she thought.

Pat had jogged halfway down the street when she realized she hadn't locked her front door. She remembered how shocked she was when she had first seen Deb leave the house without locking her door. Now, a few years later, it seemed normal.

As Pat jogged, she continued to think about her feelings of restlessness.
Let's see ... I certainly don't regret the move. Don't really miss the big city, except for an occasional yearning for Thai food. Am I lonesome?
Now that they were empty-nesters, she and Mitchell had made trips to see the grandbabies in Houston fairly regularly. In fact, they'd recently returned from such a trip. And Jane, their daughter, was only four hours away.
No, it's not that.
Her brow furrowed as she probed the weird feeling, much like feeling like a sore tooth with her tongue.

I'm not unhappy, or lonely, or stressed.
With a start, she realized things were going too well! She liked a little mystery of the unknown in her life.
I am, in fact, bored.
Not a feeling she was used to having, to be sure.

But there it was—a kind of restlessness, irritability, and itching on the bottoms of her feet. She reached up and absentmindedly swatted a mosquito from her ear.
Oh, Lord, it's that "everything is too predictable" disease I have every once in a while.
She and Mitch had had fun fixing up the Victorian. It was like playing house, and then, no sooner had she moved in the mishmash of furnishings than she and Deb had become embroiled in last year's murder investigation with Detective LeSeur.
What did you think?
she scolded herself firmly.
That another person would conveniently die just so you could feel that flush of discovery and adventure again?
Yet now, someone had.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to give poor Sal some help,
Pat decided.
Just to be helpful. Not to interfere—no, no. After all, he is new at the job. And it was clear the other night that he is in way over his head.

Little did Pat know that once again she was headed straight into a southeasterner of a mystery. And Deb was in the boat with her. Soon, they would be paddling for their very lives!

Reaching the church, Pat ran up the stairs two at a time.

Wendy, the office manager-slash-bookkeeper-slash-guardian of the realm, was waiting. "You're late! The Altar Guild is already up in the boardroom." Relenting, she smiled at Pat and held out a cup. "I made you coffee. It's caffeinated," she whispered, as she handed it to Pat, along with some papers, "because you're gonna need it."

"What did I do now?" Pat whined.

Some people were born to be pastors, but Pat wasn't one of them. Her husband said it was a great cosmic joke that God played on her—or maybe on the church.

"Nothing. And that's just the trouble. They want you to talk to the janitor. He keeps moving their boxes, doesn't listen to what they say, and won't help put up the decorations for holidays, et cetera and et cetera."

Pat started up the stairs to the second floor but glanced back over her shoulder and saluted briskly. "Once more into the breach."

"Well!" came an exasperated voice from above. "She's finally here."

Gossip ran rampant through the Black Cat Coffeehouse.

"You heard, didn't you?" Rick asked in a stage whisper across the front round table. Everyone instinctively leaned in closer.

"Heard what?" Wayne asked. "Are you talking about the new health bill or the conspiracy against the poor?"

"Nah, I'm talking about what happened at the Tent last night."

"Oh, sure, everyone knows a body was found," another customer replied. "Bizarre, isn't it? I wonder if they know who it is yet."

"That's what I'm tryin' to tell you! I heard it from a very reliable source that it was one of the musicians."

"Hah, reliable source, is it?" Wayne scoffed. "I'll bet you've been talking to that Suzie at the station, haven't you?"

"Never you mind who my source is," Rick said indignantly. "Do you want to know who they think it is, or not?"

Carol leaned across the table. "Well, I'd like to know. Tell me, if you don't want to talk to Wayne."

"It's not for sure, you understand. But from what they found in his pockets they think it might be
Mac.
They're checking at all his known addresses now."

"You mean that Canadian, Monty McIntyre?" Carol asked. "Didn't he have a thing going with Linda?"

"A
thing?
Who do you think is Forrest's dad, huh?" Wayne sneered.

"Maybe she just got tired of his coming and going," someone else suggested. "Or maybe the kid just couldn't stand the idea of his being his dad, and ... you know ... did him in."

"What did you mean, exactly, by that remark?" Linda Johnson's voice barked so sharply with anger that it hurt to listen to it.

A hush fell over the table. "Oh, hello," Rick said sheepishly. "I guess we didn't see you come in."

"Obviously not! Or you wouldn't have been maligning me and mine, now would you? You bunch of gossips! I have half a mind to pick up this chair and knock some sense into the lot of you. Don't ever let me hear you talk that way about my son again, or you'll be sorry!"

With that, Linda turned on her heel and stomped out, leaving everyone sitting in silence for once.

"That's okay. It's okay."

He sat down on the white wooden chair in the barn and

couldn't keep his eyes from the corner.

It just doesn't seem real, not real at all.

That's the place, where my life was changed forever.

Well... not just mine,
he amended.

But so far I've kept it together.

He mentally applauded himself.

"After all this time it would do no good to turn myself in.

He's already dead."

He reasoned with himself for the hundredth time.

Dead. Then why do I feel so dead?

His body started to shake.

"I won't come in here again.

"I won't," he promised himself firmly.

And yet, sitting in the quiet, he knew he

couldn't help but return.

And keep returning,

as if paying homage, or doing penance.

"It's okay. It's okay," he repeated.

"It's going to be okay,"

he said out loud into the gloom.

"I'm home!" Pat sang into the phone, a note of relief in her voice.

"I'll drive," Deb answered. "You change; I'll get the car and pick you up soon. So, did they string you up yet?" Without waiting for Pat's answer, she laughed and turned off the phone.

I love my little white Prius,
Deb thought as she slid into the front seat.
And I really love the idea of fifty miles to the gallon.
Now, with both of her boys—Bruno had reached the status of one of hers—in high school sports, she was driving a lot. It certainly made it less painful, knowing it didn't cost her an arm and a leg for gas.
Next year, Eric will be driving!
She didn't want to think about that quite yet, so she pushed it out of her mind.