by Pat Ondarko
Just who are you, Mr. Corpse? she thought, interrupting her dictation and reaching in his pocket for more clues to his identity.
At the same time, outside the nearby chalet, Deb was shifting her weight nervously from foot to foot. "Why is it always hurry up and wait?" she pouted. "I'm hungry! The least they could do is feed us after all that work."
"Settle down, Deb. We want them to get this right. This is a horrible thing that has happened," Pat said sagely, glancing over at the young deputy who kept watch over the long line of people waiting to be called for questioning.
"But we've stood here for over an hour after they herded us into line like a bunch of animals," Deb grumbled.
"I know, Deb, but we want to cooperate. We know we didn't do anything wrong. So it's just a nuisance, that's all," Pat soothed.
"But why were Mitch and Marc fingerprinted first? They weren't even in the barn!" Deb whined. "My favorite part of the tent-raising is the potluck feast we have for lunch afterwards," she added petulantly, trying to solicit a little sympathy. When she didn't get a response, she turned her attention toward the chalet, from which Mitch and Marc were emerging, each with a satisfied smile. Marc carried a Mountain Dew, and Mitch, a Diet Coke.
"What did you bring me?" Deb called out.
"How was it, Mitch? Did they ask any questions?" Sam's voice interrupted apprehensively from behind her.
"Let me see your fingers," Carl Carlson ordered impolitely. "I want to see what kind of ink stains it leaves. I've never been fingerprinted before."
"I have," replied Mitch enigmatically.
"When were you fingerprinted before?" Deb asked, although she looked quizzically at Pat.
"Does it hurt?" asked Carl.
"Nothing to it, guys," Marc replied, holding up his perfectly clean fingers. "Especially since none of us had anything to do with this."
"Just a precaution; that's what they said," Mitch added.
"What's going to happen to all that food in there?" Deb asked longingly.
"I thought you two had turned over a new leaf about food," Marc teased.
Deb blushed, like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "Sure, we've done better. But I have hypoglycemia, you know — low blood sugar. And when I'm under stress, it's worse."
"And this is a big one," Pat said, coming to her friend's rescue.
"Don't let it get to you so much," Marc said, trying to offer comfort. "See you at home. We're cleared to leave."
"Bye, you two. We have to go," Mitch added. "We're stopping at Patsy's on the way home for a burger."
"Do you mind starting dinner tonight?" Deb called, glaring at the two men as they walked down the stairs to the car. "The way this is going we'll be here until midnight! Hey! Give me that Mountain Dew!" she barked after them. Marc just waved and kept on going.
"I can't believe they wouldn't let us finish hauling the bleachers out of the barn," grumbled someone behind them.
Pat turned around and rallied a smile. "It's okay, Phil. Somehow this baby of yours will be safely delivered on time," she soothed.
"Pat Kerrey! Next!" Sal called impatiently from the screen door of the chalet.
"Good things come to those who wait," Sam teased Deb. "Especially those who wait patiently."
"Tell him to pick me next," Deb urged Pat as she made her way to the front of the line.
"I'm not going to stand in line when there's so much work to be done!" Phil complained loudly. He turned and stomped off toward the big tent. "If they need me, they know where to find me! I've got a show to get out."
He's going to get in trouble, Deb thought.
Deb crept to the screen door, trying to peek inside.
A young officer stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the interior. "Can I help you, ma'am?" he inquired politely.
"Just ... looking for the bathroom," Deb replied.
"Sorry, but no one goes in until they're called," he replied firmly. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he said, "Really, Deb. You should know where the restrooms are by now."
Pat's unmistakable voice rang out just then. "Just don't mess up my fingernails. I don't want to ruin my new manicure."
Deb smiled, her mood lightened by Pat's silliness.
Half an hour later, Pat sat in the Adirondack chair outside the chalet, jiggling her foot impatiently. Maybe I should get in the warm car. What on earth is taking so long?
Only a few people remained waiting outside.
A minute later, Deb emerged from the chalet, a sheepish look on her face.
"What did they do to you in there?" Pat asked. "I was ready to send in a search party! I thought maybe they put you to work or something."
"Worse than that," Deb replied, holding up her hands. Her fingers were covered with sooty ink, and her hands looked as if she had been cleaning chimneys. There were handprints on her sweater and a few on her face.
"What the—?" Pat asked.
"They must have made me roll my fingers at least twenty times. First, I kept messing up when they got to the middle finger, so they had to start the whole process over ... and over ... and over," she complained. "Then, when they finally got a full set of prints, they showed the card to LeSeur. He took one look and told Sal they had to do it again. Then it took another six tries to get a full set again." "You're kidding!" Pat said incredulously.
"I so wish I were!" Deb wailed. "After three times like that, LeSeur finally declared me a non-person. He said I don't have any fingerprints,"
"What do you mean, you don't have prints?"
"When they couldn't see any of those little whirls on the paper, they asked me what I did for work. Turns out, my stint as a nurse all those years ago and all that hand-washing with abrasive soap destroyed all the lines!" Deb said.
"Did you grab any food while you were in there?" Pat asked.
"Nope. Marc's making dinner, remember? Let's get going."
"Look on the bright side, Deb," Pat said playfully as the two women walked to their car. "We have a contact at the CIA. When you're ready for your next career change, you can just call up Andy Ross, and maybe you can be a spy!"
"Very funny, Pat," Deb replied as she drove out of the parking lot, eagerly anticipating Marc's dinner.
"Watch out for the speed-cop!" Pat said as they turned the corner onto the highway to Ashland.
Later that same night, clean and dry at last, Deb, Marc, Pat, and Mitch sat in the dining room on Chapple Avenue, enjoying the soft glow of candlelight as they unwound from the tensions of the day. The salad was fresh spinach and strawberry marinated in balsamic vinegar. Deb bit into a fresh-picked Bayfield strawberry, savoring the juicy taste. Marc had outdone himself once again; he had whipped up a memorable and tasty meal, like Mickey the magician, conjuring the dancing broom and bucket—except that Marc's meals never seemed to go awry.
"M-m-m... this is so good. It's all too good!" Pat said appreciatively, biting into a warm slice of beer-herb bread. "How did you have time to bake bread today?"
"Deb made it yesterday on her day off," Marc replied, smiling proudly in Deb's direction.
"It's a Linberg favorite," Deb said. "It never fails."
"Anyone ready for next course?" Marc asked.
Clearing the table, as his parents had taught him to do with company, Marc then brought in a big bowl of ratatouille and a platter of grilled chicken.
"Oh, Marc, you sure know the way to my heart," Pat sighed. "I just love ratatouille."
"It's not very good this time," Marc apologized. "I had to buy tomatoes and zucchini at the co-op. It's nothing like picking them right from the garden."
"Stop it, you silly boy!" Deb admonished. "Do not apologize for your food—ever!"
"All food is good that someone else cooks, especially when that someone is you," Pat chimed in.
"Mitch did the chicken!" Marc said, trying to deflect attention from his wife's gentle rebuke.
"Grilled to perfection," Deb said.
"He may not be able to cook
much, but he sure can do chicken on the grill," Marc agreed.
Mitch blushed at the praise. "Just wait until dessert! I did that, too."
Lifting her glass, Deb toasted, "Here's to the cooks!"
"And here's to a good ending to a very terrible day," Pat added.
"Speaking of that," Marc said sternly, and the lightness of the previous moment suddenly vanished, "you two are going to stay at least a mile away from this thing, right?"
"What do you mean, 'this thing'?" Deb bristled. "You're talking about a dead person, probably a murdered person. You do understand the seriousness of it all, don't you?"
"Isn't that what I've just been telling you?" Marc asked defensively.
"One thing we do hope you are serious about is keeping yourselves safe," Mitch pitched in, looking lovingly at Pat.
Deb smiled as she noticed Mitch admiring Pat's new lithe body. Married twenty years, and he still has a sparkle in his eye, Deb thought .
"Remember what happened the last time you two got caught up in something like this?" Marc lectured. "You almost got killed up in that crazy artist's apartment, remember?"
"Of course we remember!" Pat answered, " We were there, remember?"
"Past is not always prologue to the future," Deb said wearily.
Pat turned to Marc. "How long do you think that body was in that barn, anyway?"
"Depends," Marc answered. "If the temperature stays cold, a dead body can be preserved for several months without decomposing. My guess is that it was probably there since last fall."
"Really?" the two women answered in stereo.
"I think it's time for dessert!" Mitch interrupted, trying to escape the unpleasant table talk. "Anyone for ice cream?"
"Sure, I'll have some," Marc eagerly replied. "And then I would love some help getting my boat uncovered so I can give it a bath before we launch it."
Bright and early on Monday morning, Deb took out her German coffee press from the cupboard. She scooped three heaping tablespoons of freshly ground coffee into the bottom and then slowly poured boiling water over the top to the two-cup line of the glass jar. She inserted the mesh plunger over the hot water and slowly pressed the metal toward the bottom of the flask, marveling at how the color of the water quickly changed from clear to deep chocolate. She had learned about coffee presses after visiting her German-exchange daughter's home in Germany a few years before.
Deb kicked off her shoes and made her way to the couch, taking a steaming mug of the freshly brewed Traveler's Blend. How appropriate, she thought as she inhaled the fresh aroma. Deb caught her reflection in the hallway mirror and noticed how thin her face looked. Her husband, Marc, was already relaxing in the living room, enjoying a rare moment of quiet, engrossed in a medical mystery novel.
"Hon, can you believe it's been a whole year since Pat and I returned from our trip to Nevis?" she asked dreamily, joining him on the couch.
"Oh, boy. I know that look," Marc replied with a sigh. He put his finger in the book to hold his spot. "You're starting to get that wanderlust again, aren't you?"
Deb felt a stirring of desire deep down in her soul, but it wasn't for carnal pleasure. God knows I get plenty of that with Marc, she thought, and she giggled to herself as she sipped her coffee. Hot! she thought, and not just the coffee. She companionably nudged Marc's shoulder with her own and giggled again as he looked at her quizzically. Her spirit of adventure was churning inside like a funnel, stirring up dust in her life and clouding her view of the present moment.
Marc glanced over at her with a knowing look.
"I am so lucky that you tolerate my wanderlust so well," Deb said gratefully.
"It's only taken me twenty-five years of marriage to l earn certain things," he joked. "You require a certain quota of new sights and travel to old and new places in order to feel complete."
"At least I'm not a travel addict the way our sister-in-law is," Deb retorted. "Your brother's wife doesn't consider it a complete month unless she's going off alone to some exotic locale for a few days. What a life that would be!"
"Where does that travel bug come from, anyway?" Marc wondered aloud.
"For me, it has to be from my great-grandma Agnes McKinney. She's the one who, at thirteen years of age, climbed onto a covered wagon with shirt-tail relatives and made the long and arduous journey from New Jersey to the Kansas prairie in 1809. She was married four times, you know. She lived for a time in a sod house, outlived all of her husbands, and died in her nineties, a content woman," Deb related.
"Here's to Grandma Agnes' spirit!" Marc agreed, raising his can of Mountain Dew. "And to no more husbands!"
Snuggling in on the couch helped Deb to briefly escape her ruminations about finding a dead body. She took stock of the changes that had happened in the past year since her trip to the Caribbean island of Nevis with Pat. Deb reflected that one constant in the past year—other than her marriage to Marc—was the steady presence of Pat, her best friend for thirty-five years. A year before, Pat and Mitchell had decided to have a respite from city life and had purchased an old Victorian, one block away from Deb and Marc.
What fun it's been to walk with Pat to the local Curves each morning, Deb thought, and then to the Black Cat Coffeehouse after our workout. Forty pounds lighter and no more achy knees on the stairs! It has been a good thing—a really good thing!
As Marc returned to his reading, Deb's thoughts were interrupted by the beeping of her phone, which that indicated she had a message. Julia had returned from her year's stay in Madrid as an exchange student and was safely enrolled at the University of Wisconsin in Madison. "Hon, it's a message from Julia. She got a ride home from school after finals!" Deb said excitedly to Marc.
"Umm," Marc replied, not really listening. She took another sip of her coffee.
Deb missed having Julia and all her friends in the house. Luckily, their household had been unexpectedly blessed by the arrival of a ray of sunshine from Paraguay, in the form of Bruno, their most recent exchange student. Deb, Marc, and their son, Eric, had chosen Bruno from the biographies sent to them by Ruth Epstein, who also served as regional leader for the local student-exchange program.
Deb and Marc had been fairly certain that Bruno would be a good fit with their family, particularly Eric. After all, Bruno played soccer and tennis, and he was musical, just like Eric.
"Isn't it fun having a persistently happy boy who sings all the time, is helpful to a T, and whose magnetic personality and charisma draw a steady stream of kids here?" Deb asked.
"A lot easier than our own kids," Marc answered from behind his book.
Almost on cue, Deb and Marc's moment of serenity was interrupted by the sound of pounding hooves on the front stairway. Eric and Bruno appeared, looking scruffy and unshaven, clearly relishing their day off school. "Hey, Mom, what's for lunch?" Bruno teased.
"How am I going to survive the rest of this year with a second growing teenage boy in the house?" Deb teased back. "And lunch is whatever you can find in the fridge."
The boys wandered amiably into the kitchen and shut the door behind them, whispering conspiratorially.
"Isn't this a dream come true?" Deb asked Marc for perhaps the hundredth time. "I'm so glad we got to take Bruno to Montana and Washington DC since he's been here. Can you believe that it's already almost time for our annual summer pilgrimage to the Jersey shore?"
"Is this a rhetorical question, or do you really want an answer?" Marc asked good-naturedly, glancing up at her from his book.
"Really, Marc, I'm already dreading his leaving ... although not very much because that would violate my newfound priority of living in the moment." She sighed heavily. "Truth be known, I just don't know how we will survive the parting and the farewell to Bruno at the end of June."
"Just enjoy every minute of what's left," Marc wisely responded. "And make sure that you keep enough Mountain Dew and snacks at home."
"Don't you think Eric just loves having a big brother for the first time in hi
s life? He's my baby, for heaven's sake, and look how mature and responsible he's becoming," Deb sniffed.
"Sure," Marc agreed. "That kid is lucky enough to just float through life with ease."
Deb seemed to be relaxed, sipping her fresh brew, but she suddenly turned to Marc and blurted out, "I want to go to Paraguay!"
"Paraguay?" Marc responded apprehensively, putting down his book.
"It's now at the top of my list of travel destinations. The pull is strong," Deb said dreamily.
"That's not likely to happen any time soon," Marc responded, inserting a tone of realism into Deb's fantasy.
Deb sighed again and put her dream for more travel out to the universe, as she had put so many other dreams and desires of her heart. It'll happen, she thought.
Deb glanced down at her watch and jumped up. "I would love to sit here and daydream with you a while longer, but I need to call the office and let them know I probably won't be in today. I have to call Kris and ask her to set up an appointment for me. I have a court trial coming up next week."
"The glamorous life of a divorce lawyer! Not another of those crazy custody battles, is it?" Marc asked sympathetically. "Those drain you so much. I don't know how you keep working with all those broken people."
"Believe it or not, some of my clients are truly interested in improving their lives and receiving good service," Deb responded, "even if many of them seem indifferent or ungrateful or just so beaten down that they can't see their way clear out of the darkness."
"Don't you ever feel like you're wasting your time?"
"Of course I do. That's why I have all this nagging doubt about whether to continue. I just keep trying to be a torch-bearer, but sometimes it's just impossible to lead people who refuse to take off their blinders."
Marc reached over and squeezed her hand. "Go get 'em, my dear light woman!"