Too Much at Stake (4 page)

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 put 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.

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.