Too Much at Stake

by Pat Ondarko

  Pat lurched over to her friend, desperately holding on to the counter as the RV started to move down the hill.

  "Who's driving this damn thing?" Pat spat out.

  "Swearing, Pat?"

  "You're damned right! Press this button, will you? I can't seem to reach it."

  Deb reached out to press the spot. It might have worked if the RV hadn't just then hit a gigantic gopher hole and lurched sideways. They both fell in a heap the other way. It was a tangle of body parts and clothing as they hit the floor.

  "Ouch!" Pat hit her head on a counter with a very sharp edge. "That's going to leave a bump. I'm beginning to not like this thing at all."

  "Help!" yelled Deb, ripping off the rest of the tape that was stuck to her face. "Help! Stop!" Rolling over, she caught her cuffs on the chair leg as she tried to get loose. "Help, somebody!"

  Pat struggled by pushing against Deb's backside. She managed to catch hold of the counter, despite the fact that the RV was now picking up speed as it crossed the bumpy field. "Mitchell is never going to believe this one," she groaned. "We'll never live this down."

  " If we live," snapped Deb, still a prisoner to the chair leg. Her rear end was stuck up in the air. "Did it occur to you that it could be the killer who's driving this thing?"

  "I don't care who it is," Pat answered, staggering toward the front panel attached to the cab. "I'm making him stop before he gets us out in the woods somewhere." Picking up Bruce Burnside's banjo case—and not caring if it was a collector's item—she banged on the wall with it. Carl will not like this, she thought grimly.

  In the cab, Eric and Bruno looked questioningly at each other. "What in the world?" gasped Eric, who was at the wheel. "Did we hit something, or did something come loose in the back?"

  Bruno shrugged his shoulders. "Not that I saw. We would have known if a deer had come out in front of us, right? You didn't hit a deer?" Bruno had become obsessed with the number of deer that people seemed to hit in Wisconsin on the roads.

  Then it came again: BANG, BANG, BANG!

  Eric swerved onto the little dirt road at the bottom of the hill, stopping just as he hit the one mailbox within five miles.

  "Well, we definitely hit something now!" Bruno yelled. "Mi Dios, pense que Ibamos a morir!"

  "Oh, snap!" Eric said, stepping hard on the brake. "If we wrecked the RV, Mom's going to take my driving privileges away for the rest of my life."

  "And to think I thought about driving," Bruno mumbled, looking scared. "That would have sent me home to Paraguay."

  Turning in the seat to his friend, Eric replied, "If you go, can I come, too?"

  In the back, Pat fell down once again as they crashed against the mailbox.

  Moments later, a voice could be heard outside, swearing quietly. "Who locked this flipping door?"

  "Help!" yelled Deb.

  Pat remained quiet—she'd recognized the voice. Now, Lord, would be a good time. Take me now, she silently prayed. The door was pulled open by a very surprised Detective LeSeur. Behind him were two scared boys.

  "Gosh, it's Mom and Pat," Eric said, his voice shaking. "Mom, really, Phil just asked me to move it. It's not my fault."

  "What in the world? Are you hurt? Who handcuffed you?" LeSeur asked.

  Pat and Deb looked at each other. "It's really not our fault!" they said together.

  Detective LeSeur had a lot of professional experience removing handcuffs. He helped the women out of the bus, freed them of their cuffs, and then wrote out a ticket for Eric. "And I don't want to see you driving until that license is in your hand," he said as he handed the ticket to the boy. As he turned to leave, they heard him mumbling, "I've got to find a different place to do a little volunteer work. Something easier, like maybe ... doing the Polar Plunge. Jumping into the big lake in January would be easier than this!"

  Deb grimaced as she watched him walk off, laughing and shaking his head. Sure, we weren't kidnapped, she thought, but someone did lock the door. I wonder who?

  Pat's cell phone rang as she was driving to the church. "Didn't I turn that thing off?" she grumbled, trying to grab it from her bag. "Hello? Oh, damn!" she swore as she dropped the phone. Fumbling across the seat, she found it again and asked breathlessly, "Are you still there? Sorry; I dropped the damn thing."

  "Tsk-tsk, swearing on the phone, pastor?" Peter said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "I suppose it's because you were ... what? Locked in a mobile home? I've got to tell you, Agatha Christie couldn't have written it better." His deep belly laugh rang out loud and clear.

  Pat pulled into the church lot, glancing to see which other cars were there. She did not want to have this conversation inside the church, where the staff might overhear it, not because she wanted hide it, but because they would probably laugh, too. I get no respect, she thought.

  "Listen," she said teasingly, "I'm a married woman, so you have to quit calling me like this. In addition to all the teasing I've endured this morning already, I feel like I've been in a train wreck. The good thing about a small town is that everyone knows your business and—"

  "And the bad news is that everyone knows your business!" Peter said, jumping in.

  "Besides," Pat grumbled, "how did you find out already?"

  "Oh, I have my ways. We spies have spies."

  "I'll just bet it was that darn LeSeur. Can't he mind his own business?"

  "Actually, his question to me was, 'Can't those two biddies mind their own business?' It was a good laugh. Everyone here in the office enjoyed it immensely. We're thinking of putting it on YouTube." Then he sobered. "Seriously, Pat, I thought I'd warn you. Did someone lock that darn door, or could you have managed to lock it yourself by mistake?"

  "No," Pat insisted. "Carl was there, but he left while we were still inside. I suppose anyone could have done it."

  "Remember that, oh, wise lady. Anyone could have done it. And next time it won't be so funny."

  Pat felt like a cloud had gone over the sun.

  "I know it won't do any good," Peter continued, "but I'll say it anyway. Give this up. It won't be so funny on You-Tube if you're dead." And with that, he hung up.

  The sheriff's department in Washburn had been so busy with interviews and news reporters coming in that Suzie could hardly keep up with her online chat groups.

  Give me the good old days, she lamented to herself, when the biggest thing that happened was a speeding ticket or a cabin on the lake being vandalized.

  Tim and Barry, two members of the Canadian Fiddlers, came through the door. They looked scruffy, as if they hadn't slept all night. Neither of them spoke to Suzie; they simply stood by her desk, staring at her.

  "Hey, Sally!" Suzie called out toward the back offices. "Looks like your ten o'clock interviews are here. Should I send them back one at a time or together?"

  Sal's weary voice came from the back. "Send them both back. And can't you just please try to use the intercom?"

  The two men smirked as they stood by the receptionist.

  "Can't you?" she yelled back, nodding her head and indicating they could go back. Smiling to herself, she went back to her paperwork.

  "Hello, gentlemen. Thank you for coming in. Please take a seat," Sal said, gesturing to the chairs in front of him.

  "Is this going to take long?" Tim asked. "We did a gig last night, and now I just want to hit the sack."

  So do I, Sal thought. So do I. He motioned toward two chairs in front of his desk. "Take a seat, and let's get started then."

  After a brief interview, Sal excused the two guitarists. I cannot believe I took this job, Sal thought as he wearily put his feet up on his desk. He reached for the phone to call his wife to let her know he would be home late, but as he placed his hand on the receiver, the phone rang.

  "Mayor on line one!" Suzie yelled from out front.

  Why can't that woman use the intercom? he thought.

  He didn't even have the phone to his ear before the mayor started in.

  "What the
heck is going on over there? Do you realize we've been getting calls from all over the country, asking us if it's safe to come up to Bayfield and the Tent! Safe? Our one and only office staff has gone home with a migraine. And the people at the Chamber of Commerce . they can't get any work done because of the calls. When is this going to end? We hired you on LeSeur's recommendation, but you're still on probation. I want you in my office in the morning, to update the city council on the investigation. And you had better have made some progress. I'll bet those two sleuths from Ashland are probably doing a better job."

  "Sir, we are doing the best we can," Sal replied, gulping down his anger. "If you want me to waste valuable time talking to those busybodies—no, strike that. I'm sorry. I'm tired and really quite busy. If you want to fire me, do so; otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow morning. Good-bye." He determinedly stopped himself from slamming down the receiver.

  It rang again almost as soon as he'd hung up.

  Surprisingly, the intercom buzzed. "Hi, boss. LeSeur is on line two. And just for the record, that mayor's been asking for it for a while."

  Sal sighed and pressed line one.

  "Hi, buddy," he heard as he picked up. "I know you're busy, but I just got some interesting information from a friend in the FBI that I think you need to know."

  "I'm never going to get lunch," Sal groaned. "What is the point of having a beautiful wife if I never get to see her?" Looking up, he saw his heart's desire standing in the doorway, smiling. In her hands was a picnic basket. Suddenly, the day didn't seem so bad. "Listen, can I call you back in, say, a half an hour?" He looked up at his wife. "Or make that an hour, okay?"

  "I guess this will wait. Call in an hour."

  Sal hung up the phone.

  "I just thought if you couldn't come home to me, I'd bring you a little something for nourishment," his wife said. Pushing aside the papers on his desk, she laid out a red checkered tablecloth and pulled out homemade soup and bread.

  "You're wonderful," he exclaimed, kissing her soundly. At the same time he couldn't help wondering what information was awaiting him from the FBI.

  Deb and Pat headed off to work at the raffle ticket booth at the Tent once again.

  "Two bucks, two bucks, two bucks!" Kay yelled as they came through the gate. "Hey, you two, you're late!"

  Kay and Don are always early, Pat thought resentfully. Don't they have a real life? The couple's skill at selling tickets was legendary. Pat, overachiever that she was, was determined to outsell them this year. Snap! Wouldn't you know she's already selling at the best spot?

  "I've already sold four books of tickets and five singles. Better hurry up, Pat, or I'll leave you in the dust!" Kay taunted.

  Speed-walking to the ticket booth, Pat grabbed an apron and stuffed her pockets with pens, tickets, and the stickers that she put on buyers' shirts that read, "I've already bought raffle tickets."

  "Cheesh, Pat, we're not twelve," Deb said, hurrying to catch her. "You don't actually have to sell more tickets than her, you know. She's, like, the queen of ticket-selling."

  "Then I'm gonna be empress this year," Pat insisted.

  "Immature!" Deb retorted.

  Don laughed. "Fat chance you'll beat my wife tonight," he bragged. "She's already got her spot by the gate." Teasingly, he added, "Besides, aren't you just a little busy to sell tickets? I'll bet you'll be out there, grilling folks. You know, all 'tied up' in the investigation."

  All the other ticket-sellers laughed.

  "But I'm a pastor. I've been trained to talk people into things," Pat said as she left the booth.

  "Remember, Pat, we're just trying to raise money for upkeep on the tent. Don't harass people," Deb called after her.

  "Yeah, yeah, like you don't count how many you sell. Raffle tickets, two bucks, two bucks, two bucks. Buy ten tonight, and get one free. Buy a hundred, and I'll buy you a beer." Hawking tickets, Pat headed for her favorite selling spot.

  Don's remark was only the first that the two women would endure that night. By now, all the other volunteers knew about their adventure in the RV and were ribbing them mercilessly. The bruising didn't help. Luckily, Marc had bandaged them and tended to their bruises—after he'd stopped laughing. They were definitely teased that night, but they were too old to be too embarrassed.

  With the bigger-than-usual crowd, and the women trying to sell lots of tickets, the time sped by. Pat didn't even stop to think about the time until she realized it was the end of the first set. The crowds came out of the tent, looking for a little snack and a beer. She stood outside the ticket booth and looked at her watch.

  "Hurry up, Deb. They want us up there now!" Pat said impatiently, as her friend fussed with her sweater, which had somehow been buttoned wrong. Part of it was bunched up around her throat, making her look like a small child who hadn't quite figured out how to dress herself yet.

  "Hang on," Deb replied, quickly rebuttoning. "Is this right?" she asked, looking at Pat for approval. "Boy, whose bright idea was it that we call out the winners every week?"

  "I believe that would be you," Pat called over her shoulder. She hurried ahead of Deb toward the front opening of the tent, where the stage crew and stars entered. "Deb, did you bring the bucket with the tickets in it?"

  "Oh, my gosh, I'd forget my head if . be right back." Deb ran back for the bucket.

  Pat sighed and went in through the stage entrance, her mind wandering as she waited to be called up on stage. Suspects ... I just can't believe it's Linda or Forrest. That's the trouble. I never can quite believe nice people commit murder, she thought, gnawing at the puzzle like a dog with a bone. Of course, that's exactly who does it in the murder mysteries I read—the ex-lover, the quiet guy, the bad boy, or the estranged son. Murderers have no type. It's never the stranger from outside the village, no matter how much I wish it to be. I just can't figure out this murderer—or maybe the truth is that I just don't want to know.

  Leaning against the fencepost, she began mentally ticking off suspects while waiting for Deb. She could hear Ed on stage, making the audience laugh.

  No, not Forrest or Linda, because they were both worried about each other. And it's just silly to think it's Sam. Girlfriends from the past, no matter how sordid the affair, only seem to add to interest in the Tent and in him, not distract from the band's popularity. This is the twenty-first century, after all. But this has become serious, and the longer it goes unsolved the more people will be hurt. Like Forrest. Of course, there is always the chance that the killer will get frightened or angry and do it again. She pulled her sweater closer around her chest, as if to shield herself from the thought.

  Looking back through the tent flap, she saw Deb coming up hurriedly behind her.

  "Ready for us?" Deb puffed.

  "Just about." Noting her friend's heavy breathing, she gently chided, "Guess it's back on the treadmill for us, old girl."

  "Oh, do shut up!" Deb responded. "And let's get this over with."

  "I'd like to get this murder over with," Pat answered.

  "Ready, girls?" Carl whispered from his spot by the stage stairs. "Be careful on the steps. This one's loose." He pointed to the first step with an old-fashioned gallant motion.

  Deb hurried past him up the stairs, giving him a tentative smile. She was hoping that the big man had really forgiven them for questioning him about Linda.

  Pat absentmindedly glanced down at the loose step and noticed something in the dirt. What is that? she wondered. It was something shiny, and for a moment, as she focused on it, she forgot the group waiting for her on stage. She leaned down to get a closer look, slipped on the gravel, and lost her balance. Her left foot went out, hitting the loose bottom step, and—whoosh!—down she went.

  "Ooof! Darn, I thought those Wii sessions would have given me better balance." Focusing her eyes in the dark back stage, she looked at the object that had caused her fall. Curiosity killed the cat, she reminded herself, but she still reached out for the piece of metal buried in the dirt. She p
ulled it out of the dirt, brushed it off, and held it up in front of her to get a better look at it in the dim backstage light. A tent stake?

  Then her eyes looked beyond the tent stake she held in her hand—and into the face of the killer. Her heart beat so fast, she thought she was having a heart attack.

  Steady, old girl, she thought. Oh, no. Not you. Please God, not him. She knew—and it showed in her eyes. Okay, she thought, clutching her chest. Maybe my heart will just break instead.

  He reached out as if to take the stake from her, and then, his face crumpling like one of last year's apples, he stepped back.

  "Yes, I can see by your look that you've figured it out. It was me," he said, tears welling up in his eyes. "But there's the start-up music, and like they say, the show must go on." Clearing his throat, he managed a small laugh. "Can we just finish this and talk afterward?" he pleaded.

  "What's keeping you guys?" Deb whispered frantically from above them. "Anyone alive down there?"

  Pat stared into his face, ignoring her friend. "Finish this?" She started to waver, but the guilt and remorse was written there for her to read, and there was no danger for her, as far as she could tell. "Okay," she said, taking a deep breath. And with their eyes, they made a pact to see it through to the ending.

  "Let's go," he said.

  And Pat followed Carl up onto the stage.

  Deb stood smiling at the crowd, standing center stage as she waited for her friend to join her. Where has Pat's sunshine personality gone all of a sudden?

  "What happened?" she whispered when Pat joined her. "Did you hurt yourself? You look like you've seen a ghost."

  "No, my dear friend," Pat replied. She glanced over to Carl as she pulled a ticket. Raising her voice, she spoke loud and clear into the mike. "And this week's lucky winner is Nancy Hanson!"

  Smiling and clapping with the crowd as the winner came up to receive her prize, Deb noticed Pat's eyes were not smiling.

  Pat shook her head in response to Deb's concerned look. "No. No ghost but something much worse," she said as she wiped her eye.