A Rendezvous to Die For (15 page)

“
Wow.” I whistled and glanced
hastily around the coffee shop. No one was sitting within hearing of
us. “Was one of the envelopes addressed to Eric? Is that how you
connected the dots?”

Jack sipped at his, by now, cold
coffee and made a face. “Actually, that involved a little more
sleuthing.” He patted his notebook again. “The first thing I
noticed was that the letters ‘e.h.’ signed every one of those
notes. I went back to the ledger and found the same letters written
alongside several figures and some addresses. In another drawer,
Strothers had a folder containing a stack of newspaper articles
separated via paper clips into two sets. Guess who had written every
single one of them, Cass?
Eric Hartfield.
I skimmed through
them and found that one set with earlier dates was very critical of
Strothers and his business dealings.”

Jack paused to sip at his cold
coffee again. I knew he was doing it purposely, but I wasn’t going
to give him the pleasure of seeing me squirm. “In the second set of
articles, which were dated about a year and a half ago to recently,
Hartfield changed his tune and began singing Bridgewater
Development’s praises.”

I let the information sink in and
stew a bit. I wanted to believe it was something important that would
get me off the list of murder suspects, but I didn’t want to have
my hopes raised needlessly. “So, you’re saying the evidence
indicates that Eric was accepting bribe money from Strothers to write
favorable articles about his development company. That doesn’t
prove anything, Jack.”

He closed the notebook and tucked
it under his arm. “Maybe it’s not a perfect smoking gun, Cass,
but it sure smells like Strothers was paying Hartfield to print good
things about him.”

“
Maybe,” I conceded. “You’re
thinking Strothers was getting tired of paying him off . . . or maybe
couldn’t afford the bribery game anymore. Eric may have threatened
to expose him and Strothers killed him.”

“
Right. Now you’re starting
to think like a detective. Makes more sense than it does to think you
killed anyone, when you had absolutely no motive.”

“
Unfortunately, my
dear Jack, because of the way you gathered the information, I can’t
share it with the deputy sheriff. And . . . how would Strothers have
gotten a hold of Marty’s ‘hawk? And . . . how would he know about
the sweat lodge? It’s not like he’s lived here all his life.”
I’d have to find another way.

* * *

Jack’s
research about Strothers, whether true or not, added one more arrow
to my growing quiver of suspects. However, I was more excited by a
call from Willis Lansing when I got back to the carriage house. “I’ll
be at Marty’s house this afternoon,” he said on my answering
machine. “Maybe you’d like to find a way to be there, too?”

I’d been trying to finagle a
way to get into Marty’s house for weeks, and now I had additional
reasons to show up on his property. One, to see if his vehicle had
any red paint on it. Two, to find out if Strothers had ever
threatened him, after he’d tried to vote down his development plan.
Three, to find out exactly how much he hated Eric for his role in
writing about the development issues he adamantly opposed. Four, to
find out what he thought of Randy. My ruse, for my landlord’s
benefit, was to deliver my rent in person. I hadn’t seen or talked
with him since the Rendezvous. Even though the aspect of finally
meeting with him was exciting, my palms were already sweating. In the
back of my mind was the thought I could very well be walking into the
enemy’s camp.

Once again, the presence of Mrs.
A on my shoulder offset my jitters. I could hear her whispering in my
ear, “You go, girl,” prompting me to stand tall and be bold. Mrs.
A had guided me directly for four years—right up to the day when
the social workers pulled me out of my eleventh-grade American
History class. Mrs. A had been rushed, too late, to the hospital,
after suffering a massive heart attack. It was one of the worst days
of my life. After the funeral, I had packed up my belongings and
driven away in the little Saturn Mrs. A had bought for me. I was not
about to let the foster-care system get its claws into me for the few
remaining months before my eighteenth birthday. I was leaving the
only real home I had even known.

When I had stopped for gas in
Ridge Spring, Minnesota, population 1250, I read a notice on the
bulletin board asking for help at Evening Star Stables. I got the job
and stayed in Ridge Spring for two years, before moving on to
Minneapolis. Now, the Mrs. A-instilled boldness urged me on to
Marty’s house.

Marty’s SUV was in the
driveway. Elated, I made my surreptitious examination of it. No red
paint. Mission number-one accomplished. I knocked on the front door,
several times. No answer. No surprise there. I headed for the back
yard, reprising the walk I’d made on my first visit to the place.
Hearing voices, I let myself through the gate. Marty and Willis
Lansing were hunched over some objects on his patio table. Marty saw
me and waved me in. As I drew closer, I saw that the objects were
open toolboxes with screwdrivers, nose pliers, and other tools
littering the tabletop. “Thought I’d deliver the rent in person,”
I said, in my best nonchalant voice, waving the check in the air.

Marty gestured toward Willis.
“Cassandra, this is—”

“
We’ve
met,” I said. “A couple times.” I handed him the check. He
folded it in half, and placed it in his shirt pocket. “Hello, Mr.
Lansing.” I glanced at the paraphernalia on the table.

Willis nodded at me. “Please,
call me Willis, Cassandra.” He followed the direction of my eyes.
“Marty and I are about to do some black-powder shooting,” he
said. “He thinks he is a better shot than I am, so we agreed to a
little friendly competition.” He cast a quick glance at Marty. “I
am certain Marty would not care if you watched. That is, if you are
interested in seeing two old codgers have a little fun.” I
applauded his finesse in finding a reason for me to stay longer to
complete my mission. He hadn’t forgotten our discussion after the
funeral.

“
Well, sure,” Marty said.
“You’re more than welcome to see me beat the ass off this bugger,
Cassandra . . . although it surprises me that someone with such a
sense of personal pride is willing to let anyone see him come up
second.” He chuckled and smacked Willis on the back.

Before I could formulate any
questions that might introduce Strothers into our conversation, Marty
was giving me a quick primer as they prepared their muzzleloaders.
“I’ve got a cap-and-ball pistol single shot.” He held up a
firearm that looked like something out of a museum. “And Willis has
several pieces, but today he’s using his cap-and-ball revolver.”
He pointed to it on the worktable. “It takes awhile to get ready to
shoot, as you can see. What we’ve been doing so far is making sure
the bore is clean and dry.” He pointed his firearm at the ground
and snapped off a few percussion caps. I jumped. “Did you see that?
The grass moved. That means all is well and the gun shouldn’t
misfire.”

Marty lifted a flask off the
table and poured out some black powder. “First, I measure out the
powder and pour it into the barrel. Then I take this soft lead ball
wrapped in some cloth wadding and ram it into the barrel, on top the
powder. Lastly, I fit a percussion cap on the nipple, right here, and
we’re ready to go.” He placed it on the table.

Willis was loading his revolver
at the same time, charging each chamber with powder, wad, and ball.
He fit percussion caps onto the nipples and his gun was ready to
fire, too. A bulls eye paper target had been tacked to the same tree
I’d seen Marty use on our first meeting.

Marty eyed the target. “I’ll
go first, as I have to reload more often than you do, Willis.” He
stepped up to the firing line that had been marked with a spray paint
streak on the ground, lifted his weapon, drew a bead on the target,
and fired. I had missed the black-powder contest at the Rendezvous so
was unprepared for the incredible noise, the flash, and the smoke. I
instinctively flinched and covered my ears. For obvious reasons, this
was not a hobby to practice in a populated suburb.

With glowing eyes, Marty kicked
his foot in the air. A pink flush had spread to his cheeks, just
visible above his beard. “Now, this is shooting! Isn’t it great?”
He lifted his gun above his head and gave a war whoop. “The first
time I shot one of these pistols, it was like nothing I’d ever
experienced.”

I nodded and grinned. “I can
see you’re enjoying this.”

On a roll now, Marty described
the variables involved in the use of old-time firearms. “It all
depends on how accurately you measure the powder, how round the ball
is, how well-centered the patch, and how tightly the whole thing is
packed into the barrel, Cassandra. When you shoot a modern gun, your
success depends on how good the quality control is in some factory.”
He jerked his thumb as if the factory were in the next block. “But
with this kind of gun, you have to be really, really good to hit the
target.” When the smoke cleared, Marty checked on the target. He
had hit it, dead center, every time.

I’d seen enough. “I’m
impressed,” I said. “Clearly, you have a knack for this sort of
thing.” I turned to Willis, who had been waiting his turn in
relative silence. “Sorry I can’t stay to watch your marksmanship,
but I have to run.” Despite their protests, I left their rivalry.

I worked a couple hours in my
darkroom while thinking, thinking, thinking. I weighed what I had
learned from my foray into Marty territory. What did I have to show
for my trouble? Not much. Marty was a crack shot, sure. But how would
that translate to being a crack tomahawk killer? And I didn’t get
to ask him any questions. At least I’d learned that Marty wasn’t
the one who had tried to run me off the road.

The
gods smiled on me about 4:15 p.m., when Marty rang my doorbell. “I
just wanted to tell you, in case you hadn’t noticed, that the trim
for the door finally came in and Chet nailed it up yesterday,” he
said. “Looks a lot better than my temporary repair job.” He
tapped at the trim in a few places.

“
Thanks,” I said, making a
show of admiring the job. “You’re right. I hadn’t noticed and I
apologize, Marty. Since I’m usually driving into the garage using
the overhead door, I don’t pay much attention to this side door.”
I stroked the new wood. “Looks nice. Even the paint matches.”

“
Chet’s a good carpenter and
handyman. I call on him at least once a month to help me around here.
Well, I won’t bother you. I just wanted to check it out and see
that you feel safe here.” He turned to go.

“
Wait, Marty. I’ve just put
on a fresh pot of coffee,” I said. “Could I offer you a cup?”

“
Well, I’ve just—”

“
Marty, we’ve never talked
about the Rendezvous.” I gave his arm a little tug. “Now that
you’re here and we’re alone, I’d like to run a couple of things
by you.”

He eyed me and cocked an eyebrow.
“Sure you want to talk about it, gal?”

“
Yes, I need to talk. As you
can imagine, I’m going a little crazy. It’s been a tough week for
me.” I held the door open for him and led the way through my living
room and into the kitchen.

“
You
know I’m at the top of the sheriff’s list of suspects,” he
said, as he accepted the steaming cup of coffee I handed to him.
Without asking permission, he seated himself at my kitchen table.
“I’ve gotten paranoid about discussing anything without my
attorney present.”

“
I know what you mean.” I
tinkered with cups and spoons, avoiding eye contact. “I’m on that
list, too, and had to hire an attorney. Lawton Sanders has been a
godsend. He’s fielded questions from the press, and I think,
because he exists, Deputy Shaw hasn’t dragged me down to the police
station for more questions . . . although he still calls me on a
regular basis.” I seated myself across from my guest.

“
Have you found out who broke
into your darkroom?”

I shook my head. “But whoever
it was wanted the Rendezvous pictures I had developed.”

His eyebrows shot up. “What the
hell. What do you suppose that’s all about?”

The microwave dinged and I
excused myself to retrieve some blueberry muffins and bring them to
the table. “I have to assume that whoever killed Eric thought there
was something incriminating in the photos and took them to find out.”

“
Any idea what it was?” Marty
peeled the paper from the muffin and took a huge bite.

“
Nope. No idea.” I broke off
a piece of my muffin with my fingers. “I don’t have copies of the
photos that were taken,” I said, hating myself for lying to him. I
might invite him in for coffee, but I hadn’t crossed him off my
list of suspects who may have stolen the photos. If he
was
the one who had stolen
them—or who had ordered someone else to steal them—I wanted him
to think he had them all in his possession. I shifted on the hard
chair and crossed my legs. “If you don’t mind, Marty, I’d like
to ask you about something that’s unrelated to the Rendezvous
murder. At least I think it is.”

He tilted his head and peered at
me with open curiosity. “Go ahead. Ask away.”

I dampened my index finger and
used it to gather up the crumbs of my muffin. Then taking a deep
breath, I plunged into the purpose of my interrogation. “I know you
and Guy Strothers don’t see eye to eye—”