Too Much at Stake

Copyright © 2011 by Pat Ondarko & Deb Lewis

Langdon Street Press

212 3rd Ave North, Suite 290

Minneapolis, MN 55401

612.455.2293

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.
Too Much at Stake
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the authors’ rich imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to use the following materials:
Ballyhoo
lyrics by Warren P. Nelson;
Wenabojoo
story by Gerald DePerry;
Farewell Friend
lyrics by Pat A. Ondarko;
About Big Top Chautauqua: A History
by
Lake Superior Big Top Chautauqua

Cover Design by Kristeen Wegner

ISBN: 978-1-936782-41-3

Dedicated to the founders, musicians, staff, board members, sponsors, volunteers, and patrons of Lake Superior Big Top Chautauqua, who have kept the magic of the Tent alive for twenty-five years

We are pleased to bring you, in this, our second mystery, to the site of one of our favorite places on earth.

Lake Superior Big Top Chautauqua (sha-ta-qwa) is a non-profit performing arts organization, operating a 900-seat, all-canvas, state-of-the-art tent theater. It is nestled at the base of Mt. Ashwabay (an acronym for the surrounding towns of
Ash
land,
Wa
shburn, and
Bay
field) Ski Hill, located three miles south of Bayfield, Wisconsin, overlooking Lake Superior and the Apostle Island National Lakeshore.

We are the real-life counterparts to the main characters, although they are enhanced and embellished in ways that we sometimes wish we were.

We are modern women of a certain age who sometimes are befuddled by cell phones, texting, and Twittering, let alone all the highfalutin gadgets that real investigators seem to have at their fingertips. What we lack in technical know-how, though, we make up for with heart, intuition, and tenacious curiosity. Some might call it stubbornness!

We try to stay away from current politics or cultural events in our mysteries, but sometimes they just seep through our pens onto the page. Aside from the Big Top, many real places are mentioned in this story. We frequent them and want you to know about them in case you decide to pay a visit to the area.

There are great coffee shops in the area. We highly recommend the Black Cat in Ashland, and North Coast Coffee and Chequamegon Book and Coffee Company in Washburn. Patsy's Bar in Washburn has the best hamburgers anywhere. Best chocolates can be gotten at Heike's Blumen Garden and Gabriela's German Cookies and Chocolates in Ashland or Sweet Sailing in Bayfield. Our favorite restaurants are Good Tyme in Washburn and Second Street Bistro in Ashland.

Why did we choose to write about the Big Top?
Because of our affection for the people who make it work and our gratitude for the many summer nights of musical magic spent on the ski hill.

As for the truth of the mystery (or any of our other little tales), as our favorite elder, Jessie, would say, "If you tell the story well enough, from your heart, it ends up truth, whether you made it up or not."

We hope you will enjoy reading about our two characters and the adventures that come their way, as much as we enjoyed writing them.

PAT & DEB

Who will it be? It seems like forever, this waiting; like being stuck out on the big lake with no wind in your sails. I'll bet I've aged ten years, it's just not fair! It wasn't my fault, if only... But no use going over it again.

Dusting off the dry mud from his pants and taking out his handkerchief to mop his face, he put his work glove in his back pocket and looked out at the grounds. In spite of the rain, the volunteer crowd numbered about seventy-five. Like a big sleeping giant, the tent's skeleton was put in place, and the sound of the metal against metal was like the waking groans of a mystical being. Alive, that's what it was, and dear god, how he loved it. Restless as he waited, he nervously picked at a spot on his face, playing the game in his mind for the hundredth time.
Who will be the one? Not the very early crew, taking out the big bones with the tractor.
He had known it wouldn't be them.

Earlier, he'd told Phil that he'd strained his back and wouldn't be helping with the heavy stuff today.
Anything so I don't have to go in there.

Phil had given him a quizzical look and snickered, "More like strained your elbow from lifting a few too many last night, seems to me."

And it was true. He had been drinking heavier lately. "Who wouldn't be?" He didn't realize he had said the words out loud until a volunteer tossed him a questioning glance. He forced a smile and waved him on. His mind and heart raced as if he were running in the Whistle-Stop Marathon in nearby Ashland.

Why didn't I move it?
He couldn't even think of it as "him"; it was an "it."
Move it before the winter. But the snow came so early this year, and the skiers were here as soon as the first flakes fell. Damn it!
Truth be told, he couldn't make himself go into that barn again—not with "it" there—let alone drag it to the car.
Anyway, it's way in the b ack. It would mean getting around all the piles of stuff and dragging that dead weight.
He shuddered but not from the rain that was falling.
I should have tried anyway.
He paced restlessly in front of the chalet but was unable to even look in the barn's direction.

"This is killing me," he muttered, and then the irony of what he had just said made him laugh nervously. "I'll go crazy—no, calm yourself down," he told himself. "You've had six months to prepare for this day. You can do it."

Squaring his shoulders, he turned and quickly walked into the chalet, almost knocking over Deb as she emerged with a cup of coffee.

"Huh, sorry, Deb." He tried to smile, but his thoughts were screaming,
Who will it be? Who will it be?
Absentmindedly, he picked at the scab on his face again.
Think about the great new season we're going to have; think about something else.
But in the back of his mind, the question still rose like a bobber to the surface.
Who will it b e? Who will find the body first?

Deb watched him go, her gaze puzzled; then she shrugged and went back to help the others.

Stinging rain drove into Pat's backside, and icy fingers dripped water down between her Two Harbors yellow rain hat and the collar of her husband, Mitch's, favorite rain jacket, which she had once again conveniently confiscated.
It isn't my fault,
she thought self-righteously,
that he picks out jackets that are so much better than mine. Besides, if he wanted to wear it, he should have gotten up a little earlier.
Closing her eyes to help concentrate, she shivered and dragged the aluminum pole forward another few feet on the slick, muddy grass in front of her. "I will not fall," she chanted under her breath. "I will not fall."
But if I do,
she thought,
that's it. It's into the chalet for me. Let the men put up the darn thing. I don't care if it's sexist or not.
Her feet made squishing noises inside her tennis shoes each time she stepped. It seemed to her as if the tent itself was reluctant to leave the comfort of the large old barn where it had been kept all winter long.

I don't blame the poor old tent,
Pat thought, feeling cross as she squished along.
If it weren't for opening Friday night ...
She sighed, picking up the pipe once more and moving it forward.
But the show must go on. Get over it, Pat. Turn the page,
she chided herself. She looked up just then and smiled at the twinkling brown eyes and elfish face of Sam West, the official photographer for Big Top Chautauqua, just as he snapped a candid shot of her.

It was a normal spring Sunday in northern Wisconsin. "Normal" by Wisconsin standards meant sixty degrees and sunny one day, and a return of winter-like winds the next. Dropping the pole at the feet of one of the men, Pat Kerry saw a face she recognized.

"Is this the one you need, Gary?" she asked hopefully. Pat and her best friend, Deb Linberg, were well acquainted with Detective Gary LeSeur, the handsome male volunteer working beside them today, because he was a police detective from the nearby city of Ashland, where they both lived. Much to Gary's dismay, the women had become entangled with him in an Ashland murder investigation the previous year.

"Hi, Pat," he responded, offering her the wide, slow grin she remembered from their work together—although to be honest, they hadn't
really
worked together on that case. It had been more like "Get out of my hair, you two, before I throw you in jail for obstructing justice." It had all worked out okay in the end, though, and they had even become friends; hence, the smile.

"Sure, that's the right one, but if this rain keeps up, you'd better start bringing out some wooden boards."

Pat looked puzzled. "Boards? I didn't see any boards in the barn. Why do you need them?"

"What else?" he said, rolling his eyes. "To build an ark, of course."

Laughing, Pat went back for another pole.
So many people seem to like to make church jokes at me,
she thought with a smile,
just because I'm a pastor.

When Pat had first decided to take a sabbatical from the ministry, she hadn't wanted anyone to know she was a pastor. She had even toyed with the idea of saying that she was a house painter. Pat's smile broadened as she remembered the practical words of her husband, Mitch: "You're such a sloppy painter, Pat. What would you do if someone actually asked you to do a job?" In the end, she decided just not to say anything at all. Now, a year later, she didn't much care who knew. After all, being a pastor was a part of who she was.
Let them deal with it however they want,
she thought. Unfortunately, some folks' way of "dealing with it" was to make church jokes and references.

Oh, well,
she thought. She trudged back up the muddy ribbon of grass, ducking her head down as yet another wave of wind hit her straight in her face.
At least when they know, they don't swear so much in front of me.

Pat's mental reverie was interrupted by the sight of a smartly dressed woman with short, carefully coiffed white hair. Her long azure-blue skirt swished as she walked, and the several gold bracelets she wore on each wrist jangled as she pointed with one hand and clutched a clipboard with the other. Her sweet, grandmotherly voice seemed to coo as she spoke. "This Chautauqua was founded in 1985 by a ragtag bunch of talented musicians, led by one Warren Nelson," she informed the pack of photographers and reporters—all holding notepads and pencils—that she was leading through the construction site. "The 'Big Top,' or 'the Tent,' as it is known to locals, has become a unique, regionally acclaimed performing arts venue, with an annual operating budget of over one million dollars. Making this venue available each summer requires the dedicated efforts of crew and volunteers—they raise it each spring, just before Memorial Day, and take it down each fall, during the week after Labor Day."

Pat looked up at Carolyn Sneed, the long-standing executive director of the Big Top, as she and her entourage approached. "Hello, Carolyn. I guess it's that time once again." Pat nodded amiably at the group.

"Hi, Pat and Deb. Thanks for helping us out this year," Carolyn responded cheerfully.

How does she remember everyone's name?
Pat wondered.

Without missing a beat, Carolyn turned her attention back to the news crew. "The process of raising the Tent is done in the spirit of old Chautauquas, or traveling shows, made famous in small towns at the turn of the twentieth century, only this production is done without the elephants to do the grunt work." A few chuckles erupted from the group. "Today, it is the volunteers like Deb and Pat who are the elephants." Carolyn gestured towards them with an impish smile.