by Pat Ondarko
"Like every other parent in the world!" Pat exclaimed.
"Right. But call it guilt, call it projection, call it anything you want—Mac seemed compelled to step up his efforts to force his son on to a path that Forrest didn't want," Deb expounded. "Linda told me once that there were many arguments between father and son whenever he visited, and she got tired of the tension between them and began to step in. She couldn't stand Mac's onerous and condescending attitude toward her gentle, well-adjusted son—the son that she alone had brought up." Deb pursed her lips, her exasperation clear.
"All right then," Pat said. "Keep trying to convince me how Forrest could have been responsible. I'd love to follow your thinking into the wilderness, but honestly, here he is, a budding musician; he's well grounded"—she ticked off his attributes on her fingers—"he's well balanced . a guy like that is going to just up and decide to off his pop one day? Makes no sense to me."
"You're such a skeptic, Pat," Deb sighed. "But from what I've learned in all my years of family-practice law, the chances are good that the kid had lots of abandonment issues, growing up without a father and all."
"There you go again, Deb. Injecting your own issues into someone else's drama," Pat challenged her. "Not everyone in this world has to be labeled with issues!"
"Well, let's just put aside the argument for now of whether or not Forrest felt abandoned by his father," Deb continued. "What if Forrest just blew a cork because of some argument between his parents? Say he was just trying to protect his mother. Maybe he found out about the babe up in the woods in Herbster and just didn't want his mother to have to endure one more insult."
Pat shook her head. "If you ask me, it's still a stretch for someone to do something so out-of-character and so serious, without a lot more reason."
Deb nodded in agreement and stared absently around the coffeehouse. She noticed a poster still on the wall that advertised Monty and the Canadian Fiddlers' appearance at the Tent from the previous season. She gestured with her head to Pat. "Do you think we should take it down?"
"Well, we certainly don't want Forrest or Linda coming in here and having more to be sad about, do we?" Pat assented.
Pat had barely gotten the words out of her mouth when the front door to the Black Cat opened and in walked a tall, bearded, distinguished-looking man wearing a jaunty black beret. The man glanced at the poster and then, visibly agitated, walked over to the wall and ripped it down.
Deb recognized him as Heinrich Wilson, the drummer in Mac's band. She gave Pat a quick kick under the table.
"Ouch!" said Pat, loudly enough for the whole room to hear. "Why'd you do that?"
Deb rolled her eyes toward Heinrich, then smiled and called out, "Hi, Heinrich! Hey, it's nice to see you out and about."
Heinrich paused for a moment. He took off his dark sunglasses and peered at the two women, trying hard to place them.
"I'm Deb Linberg. I met you at the cabin at the Tent a few years ago before your show. I was the board president for Big Top Chautauqua then. This is my friend, Pat."
Heinrich smiled tersely, looking slightly annoyed by the intrusion, but he extended his hand in polite greeting. "Nice to see you," he replied in a detached manner.
Seizing the opening, Pat said, "So sorry about your loss . Mac . I mean, it must be hard to lose someone so close to you. I understand that you had played together a long time. Mac was such a great guy. You must have been as shocked as we were about what happened to him. Do you know yet what happened?"
Heinrich narrowed his eyes as he studied Pat. "Thanks for the sentiment, ma'am," he replied, "but the truth is, Mac wasn't always that good. Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but I'm just being honest when I say that Mac was one of those performers who sucked all the oxygen out of the room for all the rest of the grunt workers around him. Not to mention all the money, publicity, and glory. He was an attention hog, that guy."
Deb's mouth dropped open in surprise. She was taken aback by his speaking so bluntly and unkindly about a dead crony. Quickly regaining her composure, she tried one of her professional calming techniques. "Well, I can see that you must have been hurt by Mac's behavior at times, but surely there were good times for you and Barry and Tim that you want to remember?" Deb asked hopefully.
"Sounds good in theory, ma'am, but you obviously never had the IRS coming after you for more taxes than a poor peon drummer can earn in a whole year!" Heinrich's eyes were flashing now as he turned abruptly to Matt behind the counter to order a large dark cup to go.
"So is that why you didn't miss Mac over the winter?" Deb persisted.
Heinrich laughed. "Hell, no. I just thought he was in rehab. Probably most people did."
"So much for commiserating with the bereaved," Deb said under her breath as she watched Heinrich head for the door. "A guy should never call me 'ma'am' twice. Let's put him on the list. What do you think about Heinrich, anyway? He's certainly mean enough!"
"Nah, I don't know if that's true," Pat responded. "Remind me: who are Barry and Tim?"
"Barry's the bass player and Tim plays lead guitar in Mac's band."
"That's right. As long as you're letting your imagination take flight, Deb, we might as well go all the way. Here's one you're not going to like. What about Sam West?"
Deb's mouth dropped open once again and she looked as though she'd been hit in the head with a brick. She sat quietly, apparently stunned into a pained silence. When she found her voice again, she said, "Sam? Really, Pat? Sam, the photographer? Of all people! I mean, Sam has his faults ... heaven knows he's gotten into a few jams over the years. He's even thrown a few good temper tantrums, but Sam just doesn't seem to be the type to do something like this. Whatever makes you think he could?"
"Just suppose Sam was being blackmailed for some reason by Mac. Say that Mac had some dirt on him that threatened to destroy Sam's reputation."
"You mean he needed to protect his livelihood?" Deb asked.
"I mean he wanted to protect his relationship with a woman. Once again, I don't need to remind you that people are not always as they appear. Just the other day, I ran into Sam on the walking path, and he just gave me the creeps."
"What do you mean?"
"It was just a feeling I had," Pat answered. She shrugged and added, "Camera equipment is heavy, you know."
Deb pondered this thought for a time and then, glancing at the clock on her cell phone, she realized it was time to go to work.
Pat slumped in her seat, disappointed by their dead end. "I can see that we're certainly not going to solve this. And here we are again, analyzing and thinking that we know better than other people what the score is. To be continued ." she said with a smile.
"To be continued," Deb replied jauntily.
"One more thing, Deb, before you go. Do you remember Peter Thomas?"
"Peter from army intelligence? That Peter?"
"That one. He called me this morning." "What did he want?"
"He called out of the blue to warn me. Said he kept a connection with LeSeur and had heard about Mac's death. Said something about Mac and the band running drugs"
"Wow. It sure is a small world. I want the full scoop on all of that, but right now I have to go save the world in court again. See you soon." After putting her cup in the dirty dish bin, Deb went out the door.
Deb had barely closed the outside door to her law office before her secretary Kris's cheerful voice greeted her.
"Hi, Deb. Line one is Mr. Thompson. Line two is Ms. Thompson. They both want to talk to you right away."
Deb exchanged a knowing smile with Kris as she pondered how to respond. "Which one called first?" she asked.
"She did," Kris replied. "But he sounds more desperate."
Deb knew already that it wasn't going to be an easy morning. The Thompsons were divorcing, and she was appointed by the court to act as guardian ad litem, or legal advocate, for their eight-year-old daughter, Amanda. They were locked in a bitter tug of war over the child, a real s
truggle for power.
"Time to look for my magic wand again!" Deb said cheerfully. Although it seems to be missing a lot lately.
Deb knew that these parents expected her to work miracles where no one else, not even themselves, could, especially if the miracle meant taking their side in the custody dispute.
"Kris, can you tell Ms. Thompson I'll get right back to her? Tell her I'm on another line, but don't tell who I'm talking to." Deb took a deep breath before picking up the phone to greet Mr. Thompson. "Hello, Jim," she said in her friendliest, calmest voice.
"Oh, Deb. So glad you are in today." Mr. Thompson sounded distraught. "You won't believe what she did last night. Honestly, I just don't recognize my wife anymore. She's changed into a totally different person—a witch—and it's scary. I just don't know what she'll do next."
Deb pulled out her yellow legal pad and pen and settled into her desk chair to hear him out. The glamorous life of a family lawyer. This is why I get paid the big bucks, she thought.
"And she wouldn't even let me come to my own house. Said I had to pick up my own daughter at Burger King. Do you know how humiliating that is for me?" he whined on. "Especially since she is the one who wants this divorce. And she went off to Florida on vacation with her mother last spring! Just who does she think she is, anyway?"
Probably a woman who needed a break from the whining, Deb thought. She looked down at her legal pad and admired the cartoon she had doodled. It was Mr. Thompson in a baby hat and diaper, whining and crying. Deb smiled.
After she listened to Jim's tale of woe, she focused on his upcoming court trial the following week. "Jim, I'm sorry that you're having such a hard time," she soothed. "It will get better; believe me. After you have a final court order, you'll both know what to expect. Meanwhile, what did you think about that settlement proposal I sent you last week?"
After calming Jim down and hanging up, Deb next dialed Claire Thompson, Jim's soon-to-be ex-wife.
"Oh, Deb! You won't believe what happened last night! Jim was such a jerk! The nerve of him, thinking he could just come and pick up my daughter after school. I mean, even if he's always done it that way and even if she asked him to, that doesn't mean he should do it now. He should know that things just aren't going to be the same around here!" she ranted in a high-pitched voice. "Just who does he think he is?"
Probably just a dad who misses his daughter, Deb thought, feeling more like a baby-sitter than a professional.
"He's a menace; that's all there is to it! And my child is unsafe to be with him. He needs to be supervised at all times!" Blah, blah, blah. Ms. Thompson droned on, desperately trying to justify her contemptuous attitude toward her husband.
Deb's brain flashed to an image of the Thompsons as eight-year-old children .... Each of them held a rubber club in their hands and stood in separate corners of an arena.
Deb stood at the center between them, dressed in a tight neon-yellow T-shirt, short shorts, and a whistle in her mouth. Her taut, toned body glistened with sweat as she let out a loud blast on the whistle. As the parents relentlessly battled each other, Deb watched in wonder and tried to stay out of the way.
"Are you listening to me, Deb?" Claire asked.
Deb turned her attention to the task at hand. "By the way, Claire, what did you think about my settlement proposal?"
People get so angry with each other, Deb thought as her attention turned from the Thompsons to Mac and Linda. I wonder how much would it take to kill someone you once loved?
After Deb left, Pat sat at the Black Cat enjoying her second cup of coffee and waiting for her favorite parish nurse, Esther Marie, to show up. They always met Tuesday to catch up on parish news, and they realized early on that it was better to meet away from the church. Looking toward the door, she saw LeSeur stride in, talking to one of his young officers. Pat tried to will herself invisible and quickly looked down at the Daily Press in front of her on the table. "Don't let him see me," she silently called to the powers that be in her best Swami Ji imitation. Peeking over her paper, she saw LeSeur standing before her, arms crossed and feet planted firmly. Guess I'll have to practice that one a bit, she thought wryly. This does not look good.
"So, Pastor Pat," he said curtly, "I've just been having an interesting chat with Carl Carlson. You remember him? The board president for Big Top?"
"Of course I remember him," she snapped. "I may be older than you, but I am not in my dotage yet, and as I'm not your pastor, you can just call me Pat."
"Interesting thing," LeSeur continued, as if he hadn't heard her, "is not where he was or what he was doing but what he seemed to feel—that it was the consensus of the Big Top board that you and your busybody friend were 'investigating'—yes, that was his word exactly: investigating — this death. Of course I reassured him that we had talked and that you do not have a PI license. In fact, you could be arrested if you impeded this investigation." His voice had risen from its usual calm tone to one of stern authority.
Pat glanced at his sidekick, who was trying not to laugh at Pat's dressing down. "Wait just a minute," she replied, consciously keeping her voice down. "Since when do you accept secondhand information as truth?"
"Since Sal had Linda picked up for questioning this morning, and he's got reporters all over his jail. And a crew is searching her house right now."
"Oh, my gosh! Linda is in jail?" Pat jumped up. "I've got to call Deb. Where is that darn cell phone?" She reached frantically into her pocket.
"No," said LeSeur, pushing her back down in her seat. "You need to let Sal do his work. You need to take up quilting, or crochet, or even looking at porn on the Internet, for God's sake. Anything to keep you busy!"
She stared up at him, speechless, his hand still warningly on her shoulder.
"Hi, Pat ... Gary. Nice day, isn't it?" They both looked startled as Esther Marie stood smiling at them—although her sharp eye had taken in the hand on Pat's shoulder, and she felt the tension in the air. "Hey, Gary," she continued, as if she hadn't noticed anything amiss, "are you coaching Little League again this year?"
LeSeur took his hand off Pat's shoulder, like a small boy being caught by the teacher. "Yeah, I am."
Esther slid into a chair. "I remember when my husband was your coach. Do you remember? You were so cute, but you would get so mad, stomping your little feet when you struck out or missed the ball. Of course, you're not that little boy anymore, are you?" she said with a knowing smile. "You're a police detective now, for goodness sakes, and a good one, too."
He looked at her, and his face flushed. "Have a nice coffee, ladies," he said, looking at Pat. "Stick to burying folks, and I'll stick to how they got dead in the first place." He strode out, forgetting his coffee, with his junior officer trailing behind.
"Wow, looks like you're making more friends around town," Esther joked.
Pat just shrugged and took another sip of her coffee.
Fifteen miles north, in the same gray rectangular room where Deb and Pat had been interrogated, Sal and Linda sat across from one another.
"Now you understand, Linda, that I just asked you in for routine questioning. I will be questioning everyone who might be involved with this death. By the way, I want you to know that I'm sorry for your loss." Sal cleared his throat. "But just to keep everything straight, I'm going to tape record our conversation. Is that all right with you? And also, I am bound to inform you that you have the right to remain silent and to have your attorney present, and that if you waive such rights, everything you say can be used against you in a court of law. Is that clear?"
"Sal, thank you, but this is not my loss. Mac and I were finished a long time ago. I'll help in any way I can but frankly, I don't know anything about his band or who he owed money to. I wasn't even there when they found him." She stretched out her feet in front of her. "Got any more of that coffee?"
The intercom buzzed on Sal's desk. He chose to ignore it, but it sounded again.
"Hey, boss! There are reporters out here!" Suzie s
aid excitedly.
"Put them in the cooler," Sal answered. He got up and shut the door. "Coffee? Oh, sure, let me pour you a cup. It's with cream, isn't it? It's funny how many things people know about each other in a small town. Like your using cream in your coffee, and how Forrest is Mac's son." He handed her the coffee and noticed her face had reddened. "Now don't get all hot under the collar. That was a long time ago, and everyone knows you are a great mother. But I still have to ask you the questions. Are you ready?"
Linda took the cup from his hand. "Yeah, I know you're right. But this is so unreal. But if I was going to kill the bastard, don't you think I would have done it years ago, when it mattered?"
"Linda," Sal said sitting down across from her, "this is serious." Turning on the tape recorder, he said, "This is Tuesday, May 22, at 10:45. What is your name?"
"What is my name? You know my name." Seeing his exasperated face, she continued. "Linda Johnson."
"And what is your address?"
"Top of Ski Hill Road, Bayfield."
"And were you at the Tent on September first last year at Old Last Night?"
"Of course I was, Sal. You know that. You were there with your new wife."
"Just answer the question."
"Yes, I was, and so was half of Bayfield. Just ask me what you really want to know. Ask me if I killed him."
"Did you?"
"Are you crazy? He was a run-around bastard who couldn't keep his eyes off a pretty girl to save his soul. Lord, how many times I wished that he could have. But it just wasn't in him. So, did I want to just get him out of our lives sometimes? Yes, I did. But did I kill him? You just try to pin that one on me, Sal, and you'll be sorry."
"Settle down. So your answer is no? You didn't kill him?"
"Damn straight."
"So where was Forrest on that night? Was he with you?"
Suddenly, it got very quiet in the room. Linda folded her arms and closed her eyes. "I've changed my mind. I will not answer your stupid questions."