Too Much at Stake Read online

  "Must be lonely out here when the Tent is done for the season," Pat said.

  "Not really," Deb continued, as she dragged more stakes to the next spot designated for a pole. "The ski hill is small but pretty busy. Forrest is a darn good skier, too. Never really got into competition, though. Guess he was too busy helping his mom—it was just the two of them, you know. Still, Linda made sure that her son benefited from the best things that a boyhood in the northern Wisconsin woods offers: affinity with nature and isolation from big-city pressures. That was her thought when she made the difficult decision to keep her child and raise him, single-handedly, in the woods, rather than move to Kansas City to live near her family." Deb sighed. "Forrest has other ideas, though. Kids grow up, and they want to spread their wings."

  Pat wasn't listening but was busy with the task at hand. "Deb, how many of these stakes go in each spot again?" Pat brushed away the water that was dripping down her hat into her face.

  "Four at each."

  "Hey, ladies, we need stakes over here, now!" someone shouted from the other side of the massive tent-in-progress morphing before their eyes.

  "When did we become ladies?" grumbled Pat as she picked up more iron stakes and took them to the men who were struggling with the wind and canvas. When we were young, "ladies" always had "old" in front of it. Is that what I am? "Boy, if it gets any windier, you guys are going to lift off."

  "If it gets any windier, we'll stop for the day. Too dangerous," Phil Anich replied.

  Pat wondered if it would be a sin if she prayed for a bit more wind, just so they could stop. No, she decided, not a good idea. Besides, when were my prayers so powerful anyway? She turned back to Deb, as if they hadn't been interrupted. "So does Forrest get to see his dad much?"

  "Some. He only saw his father every couple years when he was growing up—once a year if he was lucky," Deb responded. "Of course, when Monty's group made its annual pilgrimage to perform their fiddling magic on the Big Top stage, he always scheduled a visit for a few weeks with Forrest at the same time. Forrest grew up not knowing that real dads did anything different. Still, the house show band members took him under their wings and shepherded him into manhood and into the musical world. One big happy family. But like I said, Forrest is like a young eaglet ready to take flight. And his dad, Mac ... well, Mac is Mac."

  "What? Are you saying his dad is Mac? Monty McIntyre from Monty and the Canadian Fiddlers?" The two women sighed at exactly the same time—they were two moms whose children had already left home. Is any group ever "one big happy family"? Pat wondered. For that matter, was there ever a family that was? There's probably more to this story than I will ever know.

  "Keep it moving, ladies," Forrest said as he walked alongside Deb and Pat. He good-naturedly nudged Deb with his elbow. "We've got to get this tent up today."

  "Rain's holding us up. Phil knows that," Deb reassured him. "He's in charge and he's eager for the new season to begin."

  "I am, too," the young man admitted. "Ed's going to let me sing with the house band."

  "The Blue Canvas Orchestra?" Deb asked.

  "Yup. The one and only. Ed and Cheryl sure have added some punch to that band in the last few years," Forrest replied enthusiastically. "It doesn't hurt that he's my godfather."

  "Well, then, let's get this big gorgeous blue lady up, because we can't wait to hear that," Pat said, patting him on the shoulder. They came to the large doors on the barn just as the largest canvas tent rolls were put on the trailer.

  "Looks like they have enough help with that one," Pat said, pulling at her friend's arm to urge her farther into the dry old storage barn. I've had enough rain and mud, Pat thought. "Let's see if we can pull some of these smaller rolls closer to the door for them."

  "Okay. We can wait here until Phil tells us which roll to take next."

  "Good idea," Pat agreed. "By the way, have you seen Mitch and Marc yet? Those dirty dogs were supposed to be here an hour ago." I wonder if Mitch is looking for his jacket, Pat thought idly.

  "Oh, they're here, all right," Deb assured her. "Marc was helping to tie knots, and Mitch was helping to move the bleachers in place. He'll be sore tomorrow." They laughed together at their middle-aged husbands as only old friends could.

  "Hey, ladies!" boomed a deep tenor voice. "Where are your old men?" It was Sam West, holding his camera. "I want to get their pictures!"

  Looking over their shoulders down the hill, the women spotted Marc and Mitch in the distance. Deb pointed down at them. "There they are, coming up the hill."

  "Thanks," Sam replied as he hurried down the hill to meet them, his camera held aloft.

  "How does Marc keep in such good shape?" Pat asked. "He's not having any trouble climbing the hill."

  "Oh, you know Marc," Deb replied. "It's all that racquetball and sailing he does when he's not being a doctor. What about Mitch?"

  "Mitch gets his exercise on the golf course," Pat said, "and of course in the Midwest, that's a short season." He will

  indeed be sore tomorrow, and even the next day, Pat thought ruefully. But so will I, I imagine.

  "Girls, need some help over here!" Phil Anich called to them.

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Operations Manager, sir!" Pat called back.

  They walked cautiously to the far corner of the building—it was dark and musty, as there were only a few hanging light bulbs, and no sunlight came through the windows or the skylight. Pat squinted her eyes in the dim light. A shiver went down her spine, and she felt a rush of discomfort—a queasy feeling in her stomach and a chill in her chest—as she walked farther into the barn. Although it was late May, the room felt cold. It has an odd, earthy smell, Pat thought, like mulch piles after winter, or—

  "Sorry, I meant ladies," Phil corrected himself. "I thought the three of us could move this one next." He pointed to a smaller rolled-up canvas. "It shouldn't be a problem, now that the two of you have been getting so trim and strong," he teased. "Take a corner, will you?" Together, the three of them attempted to lift the canvas.

  "Oof!" Phil grunted. "That's heavier than I thought." He saw LeSeur coming in the door and called out to him. "Can you lend a hand?"

  "Sure," LeSeur said amiably. "Anything to move this along. The rain has stopped, thank goodness, but with a smaller crew we'll be here 'til midnight, not to mention that the band is getting cranky as all get out at the delays." He wiped his wet face with a large handkerchief.

  "Well, come on over here then. Quit jawing and lift that corner," Phil directed. "Man, this is so heavy you'd think there was a dead body in it."

  As if on cue, the end that Pat and Deb were trying to lift up started to unroll. Their mouths dropped open as the canvas rolled back to reveal a stiff and discolored human hand.

  LeSeur's eyes darted from the women to Phil as they edged away from the canvas. He narrowed his eyes, trying to assess the situation. "Is ... this a joke?"

  "No, no, this is no joke," Phil said, looking shocked and a little green. "I'm pretty sure we didn't leave that in here for the winter." He clapped his hand over his mouth as he barked out a laugh and then gasped as the full impact of what they were looking at hit him.

  LeSeur stepped up to the canvas. "I swear, Phil, if this is a joke ..." He looked up at the other man. "Nope, I thought not. Well, I guess it's going to take a lot longer to put up the Tent now." He shook his head, pointing at the two women. "Don't move. No, you, Deb, get your husbands to guard the door. Tell them, no one in or out. But don't tell anyone anything yet, please." He looked toward Pat and Phil. "And you two just stand still so we can keep the crime scene as clean as possible." He sighed deeply and grumbled, "As if that's going to happen. Only about a hundred people have tramped over this mud today. Oh, this is going to be real easy." LeSeur's brow furrowed in a way that Pat remembered from the previous year when the last dead body had been found.

  Deb ran out the door, holding her stomach with both hands. Closing the door firmly behind her, she thought, To think I gave up a tenni
s match to be here!

  For one brief moment, there was silence. The sun had broken through the clouds, and sunlight streamed in through the small row of windows on the side wall. Pat glanced around the barn at the stacked boxes that held the props, keeping her gaze anywhere but on that hand.

  If I had just stayed in the chalet to warm up the lunch, Pat thought, shivering a little, I could be drinking coffee right now. Please, Lord, don't let us get hooked into another murder investigation. She felt her body begin to sway, and she did her best not to move, hoping against hope that her balancing exercises would help her.

  Looking up and spying Pat, LeSeur growled, "You and your friend have the strangest habit of showing up around dead bodies. And just to be clear... you will not try solving this one, right?"

  Pat remembered well her last encounter with LeSeur when their paths crossed during a murder investigation of a patron from the Black Cat Coffeehouse.

  At that moment LeSeur spied Sam, snapping another photo. "And get that damn camera out of this barn. This isn't a Big Top show! This is a crime scene!"

  Sam sheepishly lowered his camera and backed out of the barn.

  LeSeur turned his attention back to Pat. "You're clear on what I said?"

  Pat solemnly nodded her head as she held her hand over her nose and mouth, trying not to breathe too deeply. The smell of the body filled the room. "Of course," she said, her voice muffled. "You can count on it."

  Though she really meant it at the time, no less true words had ever been spoken. In her wildest imagination, and she had one, she couldn't have dreamed up what happened next. Or the circumstances that presented themselves that would pull her and her best friend into danger. No, Detective LeSeur was not going to be a happy camper.

  That same day, the phone rang at the home of county coroner Ruth Epstein. Ruth answered, listened attentively, and then tossed her cell phone on the kitchen table. "Why is it always cold and rainy when I get called to a scene outside?" she grumbled to her husband, Joel.

  Joel grunted sympathetically from behind his New York Times. "Well, at least it's not the middle of the night." It still amazed him that his petite gray-haired wife didn't mind being around dead bodies. He shuddered and then smiled, reminding himself that she was equally amazed by his work—that he could deal with messy divorces and court cases and sleep through the night was beyond her comprehension.

  "Car accident?" he asked, peering over his paper. "Nope," Ruth called from the hall as she put on her boots and picked up her bag. "Where is my rain hat?"

  "I think it's in the front closet. Let me get it for you." Joel left his paper regretfully. It was such a luxury to read it all the way through on a Sunday afternoon. He turned to their dog that had gotten up from under the table. "Come on, Sydney, let's get Mom's hat, and then I'll take you for that walk she promised you."

  The dog wagged his tail, as if he knew exactly what Joel had said, and put in a bark for good measure. Joel retrieved Ruth's hat and brought it to her as she opened the back door to leave.

  "We have film society movie night at Stage North," he reminded her, "and we're signed up to sell tickets and make popcorn."

  She smiled at him. "Better plan on going on your own. This one is a body at the Tent. Can you believe it?" She gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I'll call. Love you." Out the door she went, her mind already the twenty-five miles down the road and an infinity away from her home life.

  Joel grabbed his jacket and stepped out onto the porch, with Sydney close on his heels. He pulled the door closed, and they set off on their walk. Maybe I'll call Bob to help me at Stage North, he thought. "Come on, Syd, get a move on!"

  Ruth took a deep breath, like an actress coming onto the stage, and stepped into the barn at the bottom of the ski hill. She willed herself to focus. Just inside the barn door, she stopped, her razor-sharp mind taking in the whole scene. The police had already set up bright lights. Two uniformed officers, their breath visible in the chilly barn, were standing just inside the door, waiting for her.

  Ruth stuffed her driving gloves into her coat pocket as she mentally divided the room into sections. The door area had a dirt floor, trampled by many volunteers' feet. To the left, shelves were filled with pile upon pile of dusty props and costumes, reminding her of a Victorian attic, full of forgotten treasures. To her right, rolls of canvases were left where they had been when the workers had been forced to stop. Beside them sat a wooden chair, as if waiting for an occupant. And there, on the ground among the canvases, was the body.

  "Somebody have a heart attack putting up the Tent, Sal?" she asked as she shook the young deputy's hand. Even as she asked, Ruth realized that couldn't be the case. For one thing, there was no emergency medical unit on the scene, and for another, she knew that musty smell. Violent death, even in the cold, had its own aroma, and she recognized it in the barn.

  Sal shook his head. "No, this one's been here a while. But that's your job. You tell me." He crossed his arms.

  "Well, now, did you find it in among these canvases? Don't give me that look," she added after noticing Sal's defiant posture. "I know that you know enough not to move a body. Let's see what I can give you. I'm not a character in one of those detective novels Pat and Deb threaten to write—you know, someone who has all the answers—but I'll give you what I can now. The rest you'll have to wait for until the autopsy."

  Ruth set down her bag, pulled on a pair of latex gloves, and dabbed some Vicks into her nose. "But thanks for the warning about how long the body's been here. Let the games begin." She took a few cautious steps toward the body, carefully watching where she walked through the crime scene area. "It looks like you've started without me," she said, glancing disapprovingly at Sal over her glasses.

  Sal raised his hands, as if to ward off her judgmental look. "Now, Ruth, we haven't touched the body, except for when they first found it. LeSeur was one of the volunteers on the scene, if you can believe it." He rubbed his chin. "All I've done is get the volunteers out of the building and lay down some strips of tape on the ground so we can go over every inch when you're done." He tipped his soggy fishing hat in her direction. "Strictly by the book."

  Ruth nodded. "I'll want to talk to LeSeur and whoever found the body. You know I like to be thorough. Where should I walk?" she asked, pulling out her little Canon and snapping pictures.

  Sal pointed to a path that had been taped off in the mud. Ruth nodded again and handed her overcoat to a deputy. She approached her job as she did everything in her life, with quiet consideration and astute methodology.

  Stopping a few feet from the canvas that still held the body, Ruth carefully looked at the way the body was lying halfway out of the large blue canvas. She snapped a few more photos at a different angle.

  "Hey, Salvadore, was the body rolled up or found like this?"

  "Rolled up. They found it when they tried to lift the canvas."

  "Dead weight, you might say," snickered one of the other deputies.

  Ruth turned slowly to look at him. "Kid, I know we haven't worked on any cases together before, so I will tell you this for the first and last time: I don't like 'dead' jokes, and I don't ever tolerate jokes about my dead clients. This person is somebody's child. Someone is probably worried about him right now. Every time you are in a situation like this, I want you to think, 'What if this was my dad? How would I like him to be treated?'" Shaking her head she turned back to the body. "Enough said. I won't mention it again."

  Already her focus was on the scene. Everyone waiting at the door faded away as Ruth's love of the mystery of life and death took over. She pressed the button on her handheld micro-recorder—a gift from Joel, who knew his wife so well—and spoke softly. "This is Ruth Epstein, and it's May 20 at 1:10 p.m., at the Chautauqua tent site outbuilding. The scene has been trampled by many volunteers, and currently the body is half out of a tent canvas. Detective Sal Burrows, the officer in charge from Bayfield County, has said it was found rolled up with all the canvases, which had been p
ut away for the winter."

  She moved closer and squatted down. I'm getting too old for this, she thought as her knees creaked. She continued her spiel into the recorder. "The body is lying face down, but the position may have been altered because the workers tried to move the canvas. The building is unheated and appears to have been cold and dry all winter, which may have contributed to the body's lack of decomposition."

  Ruth took a pen from her pocket and used it to gently pull away part of the canvas. "Subject is male, about six feet tall and dressed in jeans, a sweater, and western-style boots. A cursory check shows no visible wounds." As she pulled away the rest of the canvas, the corpse moved slightly, causing the gathering behind her to gasp. Ruth didn't bother to look around; she just called out, "Sal, I need two guys to turn him over."

  Everyone instantly looked away or down at their feet, as if they were school children, thinking that if they didn't look up, the teacher wouldn't call on them.

  "For goodness sake!" Ruth said exasperatedly. "Sal, get some gloves out of my bag and come help me!"

  Sal sheepishly came forward and gently tugged on the canvas, but the body didn't move. Ruth stood up, turning off her recorder.

  "Okay," she said, "on the count of three. One ... two ... three." The body rolled over. "Thank you." She looked up and noticed Sal's white face. "Stay if you want," she said without rancor. "Just remember, if you start to faint, fall away from the body." To Sal's credit, he stayed.

  Ruth turned her recorder back on. "We have turned the body over, and there is obvious damage to the head, a striking blow, probably with a blunt object or tool. It looks like the nose is crushed in and also the left eye. No other discernable wounds that I can see. There is a large amount of dried bloodstains covering the face and top clothing. If the deceased was put in the canvases when the Tent was taken down, that would make him here about ..." She paused, silently counting the months in her head. "Five months." Ruth no longer heard anything other than her own voice as she continued to describe the scene and the body.