by Pat Ondarko
Just then a loud banging from the other side of the building stopped her cold. What the heck? Maybe the killer does come back to the scene. Before she could plan her next move, Heinrich walked around the corner of the building.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"Me?" she said, more bravely than she felt. "I could ask you the same thing. You didn't go inside, did you? It's still a crime scene, you know." That's just great, Pat, she thought. Make the stranger in the woods angry.
"Hell, no." He took a step toward her, then stopped and smiled sheepishly. "No, I didn't, but I thought about it. No, I'm just trying to get some closure is all. Still can't believe Mac's been dead all this time and I didn't even know." He rubbed his chin. "How about you?"
"About the same," Pat admitted. "Just trying to get a better handle on what happened, I guess."
"Well, I'd better get going. That wet-behind-the-ears detective asked me to drop by for an interview. Imagine a police detective in a big city ever asking you politely to drop by," he said, shaking his head. Without another word, he walked away.
Looking for closure, or was it something else he was looking for? Maybe a left-behind murder weapon? I wonder if a drumstick could crush in a nose, Pat wondered as she watched him leave. Shuddering at the thought, she quickly walked back to her car. After starting the engine, she locked the doors. Just in case.
Later that night, with Deb at the wheel of her white Prius, Pat scanned the gravel parking lot in front of the big blue tent. "Wow, there are already a lot of cars here. Are we late?" she asked.
Deb pulled neatly into her parking spot between two SUVs. "Please turn left at the next corner," said a disembodied voice. "That darn GPS," Deb griped. "I must have knocked the 'on' button."
Pat giggled, and the men in the backseat laughed out loud.
Marc had given her the navigating system last Christmas, because the two women were notorious for getting lost. Somehow it hadn't helped. Pat kept imagining a little person pulling out her hair, as time after time the friends didn't listen to its advice. She giggled again.
"Anyway, no. We're actually early for a change," Deb said. "But I guess people are turning out for Ballyhoo night to show support in trying times."
"Or else," Marc said in his best Dracula voice, "it's in order to get the latest scoop on the murder."
Deb rolled her eyes and released her seatbelt. She stuck her keys carefully in her coat pocket. Lately, it had been as if keys and other small items were walking away on their own. Marc said it was menopausal. What does he know, anyway? He's only a doctor.
"Whatever reason, we had better get to the beer truck. You know how the beermeister loves to train us beer maids."
The two men got out of the backseat, laughing between themselves.
"See you later," they said, waving as they went off to grill brats for the huge crowd.
"Ballyhoo!" the two women shouted after them.
As they walked to the beer wagon, Mary Jo from the Ashland Chamber of Commerce greeted them with a smile. "Got any beer yet? I'm ready!" she said enthusiastically. Mary Jo was one of the faithful regulars on Ballyhoo night.
"How did this night get started anyway, Deb?" Pat asked, following Deb and Mary Jo to the beer wagon.
"Oh, as Mary Jo here knows well by now," Deb replied patiently, "it's a chance for Big Top to seduce Chamber types with free food and beer so that they can keep feeding those patrons into the ticket office all summer long. Besides, who can resist the allure of beer-soaked brats, all the beer and root beer floats you can drink, and fabulous entertainment under balmy skies in a setting like this?" Deb waved her arms around. "And topped off by a free show by the Blue Canvas Orchestra, the house band."
"What's the show tonight?" Mary Jo asked.
"Why, it's Best of the Big Top, of course," Deb replied with a smile. She picked up a blue apron from the table and put it on.
Mary Jo handed Deb some official-looking papers. "These are for you. Carolyn asked me to drop them off." With a wave, she was off to the grills, where the men had already started the brats. "Are you ready for the crowds?" she yelled ahead of her.
Pat moved the papers to a serving table so there would be room for all the free glasses of beer they were going to fill.
Carolyn walked up and handed Pat some pens. "Hey, Pat, please leave those papers out here. Those are surveys so people can give their opinion."
"Opinions on what?" Deb asked, as she continued to pour glasses of Leinie's beer.
"Oh, you remember the bronze statue idea? Well, we're trying to decide who should be a part of the sculpture, and so we're asking patrons. The beer tables seemed the logical place."
"Good idea, right?" Pat looked everywhere but at Deb, because she knew if she did, she would start laughing. "Okay, Carolyn," Pat agreed, "we'll put them right here in front, so everyone can see them."
Carolyn nodded and then walked briskly away, moving on to her next task.
"Don't blame me if they're covered with beer at the end of the night or if the names become funnier as they drink more," Pat muttered to Deb. Luckily, Carolyn didn't hear Pat's whisper or at least chose not to.
"Give away enough free beers, and they'll be writing our names down!" Deb giggled. "Would I look thinner in bronze?" she asked, striking a pose.
Pat just laughed and filled another glass from the tap.
"Whew! How do you think a hot flash would show up in bronze?" Deb asked, fanning her face.
Pat laughed again, not bothering to answer. They were startled by a booming voice behind them.
"And remember to tip the glass slightly as you pull the tap," the jovial beermeister said as he poured each of them a tall glass of the new spring special brew. "This year, we named it Big Top Ballyhoo."
"Ballyhoo!" they shouted together and each took a sip.
"So," the beermeister said after they had savored the new brew for a moment. "What have you found out about the murder? Were you really there, and did you find the body?"
"Let's see," Deb said, still savoring her beer. "I really don't know if we should talk about it."
Pat gave her a nudge. After all, he might have information of his own to share.
"I really liked Mac," he went on, taking another sip. "He always came to Ballyhoo, walking through the crowds, signing autographs. One time, a few years back, I remember him even helping out at this very table, pouring free beers. Of course, his lines filled up with all the pretty girls." His eye twinkled as he remembered. "That man sure had an eye for the ladies. I would say his murderer was a jealous husband, but he was pretty honorable, in his way. No, seems to me he had his pick of the young eligibles. No need to steal from another man's stable. I don't get it," he said, shaking his head. "You know everyone liked the guy. What do you think?"
"I think the crowds are getting restless," Deb answered. "What say we open up and give away some beer?"
"Right on," Pat agreed.
As they started pouring, the noise from the happy crowd could be heard all the way up to the top of the ski hill.
"Oh, look, it's the raffle-ticket ladies!" a young woman said as she approached the table. "Two bucks, two bucks, two bucks!" she sang out, imitating their well-known technique.
"Ballyhoo," Deb and Pat said in chorus.
The Tent season was definitely rolling, even though curiosity about Mac's death was running like a wild moose through the crowd.
It's a comfort to know, thought Deb, that the show will indeed go on.
The Tent was unusually packed that night, and the music was lively and energizing.
At the end of the show, as the stage lights dimmed and the last strains drifted into the air like wisps of sweet perfume, the crowd erupted into enthusiastic applause. Waiting for the traditional, obligatory encore, the well-trained crowd settled back into their church-pew seats.
But instead of the typical quiet song, Deb and Pat were surprised when Ed strolled onto the stage and took the mike, saying, "We have a spe
cial encore tonight in tribute to the late Monty McIntyre, and in honor of the circle of people coming to the Tent. There will never be an unbroken circle at the Big Top." Raising his arms like a band director and urging the crowd to join in, Ed led the house band in a rousing chorus of "Will the Circle Be Unbroken?"
Will the circle be unbroken?
By and by Lord, by and by?
There's a better life awaiting,
In the sky, Lord, in the sky.
"Come on up on stage! Make a circle with us! Anyone who wants, come join us!" Ed's sweet voice implored.
"Come on, Pat. Now's our chance to be on stage!" Deb gestured excitedly, pointing to the growing numbers of happy audience members who were dancing up to the front to the beat of the music.
"Not me. I'm not making a fool of myself," Pat replied.
"Since when did that ever stop you?" Deb retorted. "This is nothing like the time we did the hula on the stage in Maui, for heaven's sake!"
Pat sighed resignedly and followed Deb up to the stage, amid the growing frenzy and insistent rhythm of the melody. The circle of community began growing exponentially, filling in with local friends and neighbors. Pat looked around the circle as she reached her hand out to a gray-haired gentleman who skipped his way to join them, a look of childlike wonder on his face.
Pat recognized so many faces in the crowd. There was Linda, and there was Forrest, trying hard to avoid looking toward his mother. There was Phil, the operations manager, looking happier and more relaxed than before Mac's body had been found. There was Carl, looking a bit awkward, trying to keep the beat with his foot but falling a step or two behind. And of course, there was Ed and Cheryl, the two Bruces, Tom, Jack, Cal, and Andy, all letting themselves go and giving into the Tent magic. The energy was almost enough to lift Pat off her feet.
Smiling, Deb's heart skipped a beat as she noticed Marc and Mitch also coming on stage. Pat saw Sam in the crowd. The classy photographer was positively beaming, caught up in the excitement of the moment and enjoying the close-knit camaraderie that had been conjured. Pat looked closer and noticed that tears were trickling down Sam's face.
Pat nudged Deb and nodded in Sam's direction. Deb gave Pat a quizzical look in return.
It's nights like this—unbelievable nights of community and musical unity and magic—that must keep the band going year after year, Deb thought. She sighed, losing herself in the music and looked again at the faces in the circle, as she silently thanked her lucky stars for the gift of that moment.
Picking up the phone by the third ring was second-nature to Pat. A pastor of twenty-some years, she had acquired the same skill that she imagined doctors must have— to awaken instantly for calls in the middle of the night. So when the phone rang late that night, Pat instinctively reached for it, causing the book she'd fallen asleep reading to hit the floor with a thump. Looking at the clock, she saw that it was 12:30 a.m. She cleared her throat and said into the receiver, "Hello, this is Pastor Pat."
"Wha-at? I'm ... I'm sure sorry. I guess I've got the wrong number."
"Who are you calling?" Pat asked politely. She could tell only that the person on the other end was young and male.
"Is ... is this the Pat that volunteers at the tent?"
"Yes, it is," Pat answered, sitting up straighter in bed against her propped pillows. "Who is this, please?"
"Darn, it's later than I thought," the voice mumbled. He sounded even sorrier now, as if it had been a mistake to call. "Sorry. Maybe I should call back another time."
"Wait," Pat said quickly as she tried to identify the familiar-sounding voice. "It's not that late. I was just reading." Yeah, reading while I snored, she thought. "Is this ... Forrest?" she asked.
"It's me, Forrest," said the voice on the phone.
Reassuringly, Pat added, "Don't worry about the time or the pastor thing. Can I help you with anything? Is your mom all right?"
There was a pause and Pat could almost hear him thinking it had been a mistake to call. But she knew that he had to decide for himself to continue, so she waited.
"Yeah," Forrest sighed. "It's me, and yes, Mom is okay— for now, I guess. Gosh, I forgot you were a preacher, but it makes sense." A little of his natural good humor showed through. "You really are good at talking people into stuff."
Pat laughed with him and settled back, knowing he had decided to talk. "This has been a hard time for you, hasn't it, Forrest?"
"Man, you can't believe how hard," he agreed. "He wasn't always around . he traveled a lot you know. My dad, I mean. We didn't always get along, not even about music. But, he was my dad, you know ." His voice trailed off. "And now we'll never have time. I just keep thinking if I had only told him how great I really thought he was ."
"Your dad did love you, Forrest. Anyone who saw the two of you together saw that." Pat waited, letting the silence fill the space between them.
"Anyway," he said, clearing his throat. "That's why I called. Sort of. I need some advice. Hey, if you're a pastor, does that mean this is confidential, like with priests?"
"It is, but formal confession is the only place I can't ever tell what you say. Is that what this is, Forrest? A confession?" Her heart skipped a beat, hoping that it wasn't. She liked this young musician.
"What? Heck, no! I mean, I didn't kill him. Is that what you think? No, I'm calling about my mom. You seem to get along with her, what with you both being quilters and all. And I wondered . could you maybe talk to her? I just don't want you to tell her I called."
She breathed a sigh of relief. "Sure, if you want. Anything specific you have in mind?" Pat asked, remembering the conversation with Linda just twelve hours before. "Actually, I have talked to her. Deb and I met her for coffee this morning." It seems like such a long time ago, she thought.
"Oh, so that's where she went." He seemed relieved. "Truth is, I'm scared half out of my mind. She had fights with him, you know. His wandering . never being able to settle down. He just wasn't the kind, I guess." There was a pause. "It was one of the reasons they never married. And sometimes, she would get so hurt and angry."
"Young man, are you worried about whether she ." Pat stopped, grasping for just the right word. "That she got so angry, she might have done something?"
"No, of course not," Forrest answered almost too quickly. "She's just. you know . so easy to pin it on, being the one closest to him and all. Everyone at the Tent knows how mad she can get, but she wouldn't have, see, because in her way, she loved him still."
A great motive for a crime of passion, Pat thought. "So why call me? You sound worried. And you know what? She sounded worried this morning, too—about you."
"She was? About me?" he answered in wonder. "Just be her friend, is all. Don't let her do or say anything stupid she'll regret."
The age-old question, Pat thought. Am I my brother's— or in this case, my sister's—keeper?
"Forrest," she said, gently but firmly, "your mom is a great woman. Tell her you're worried and scared. My advice? Talk to her, not me. I actually gave her the same advice. But don't call her tonight. You know she is in bed as soon as the sun goes down. And try not to worry."
"I know, I know," he moaned. "But how does a guy tell his mom when he's worried she killed his dad?"
For that, Pat didn't have an answer.
"It's going to be okay; it's going to be ..."
Rocking the old white chair back and forth on it back legs, his mantra went on.
Funny ... I thought once they found it, I would be free of it, but time after time, I find myself in this pl ace, in this chair, waiting.
Waiting for? Forgiveness? Or to just be found out at last? The killer always returns. I never understood that, but now I do. I return, hoping against all hope that it was all a bad dream, and it didn't happen at all.
It's going to be ... Angrily, he stood up, picked up the old chair, and smashed it to bits. It's never going to be okay again!
Getting up for church the next day was a little harder for Pat
than usual. Give me strength to do the best I can, Lord. I may be tired, but there might be someone who needs to hear a good word. Pat's prayer was not unusual as she drove over to the church for the eight-thirty morning service. She and God had a deal: she didn't try to get flowery when asking for help, and God ... well, God always took her as she was.
Esther pulled up right beside her as Pat got out of her car. Good and faithful Esther would understand. "Hey, kiddo, good morning. Say, could you take the announcements today? Frankly, if I were a snowmobile, I would be running on fumes."
Esther nodded sympathetically. "Hard night?"
"Late calls. Oh, and would you say something in the prayers for Linda and Forrest and Mac?"
"No problem," Esther said as they walked together toward the door.
This must be why Jesus sent people out two by two, Pat thought gratefully. Thanks, God.
Esther walked up to the lectern and smiled. "Welcome, everyone! It's so nice to see guests in our midst." She peered out over the large podium as if she was greeting everyone individually. Her long dark braid hung down her back and swayed slightly as she leaned forward. "And of course, you are all welcome to coffee time after worship. No Lutheran's Sunday would feel complete without it." There were polite snickers from the pews.
"On a sadder note, you will notice in the prayers today we will lift up the friends and family of Monty McIntyre. There will be a small memorial service next week. I'm sure everyone will contribute cookies and cakes for a coffee time afterward." She raised her voice above the murmurs. "I know many of us have loved his music at the Tent over the years. Keep them in your daily prayers, please." She looked down at her notes and then continued, "Oh, and don't forget your recipes for the church cookbook. We can't make it without you, and all the proceeds will go to our Circle of Grace Program," she gently encouraged them. "And now, let's do what we've come here for—worship." She stepped back, nodding at Pat to begin.