A Rendezvous to Die For (27 page)

“
I know. I was snapping
randomly, trying to fill up my CF card.”

“
I can’t identify the
person.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen boots like that
somewhere, though.”

“
I’m figuring they’re one
of a kind,” I said. “Would someone on the rez make boots with
that design?”

“
Never. Those boots were made
for people playing at being an Indian, not for Indians.” “Like a
reenactor?”

“
Yes, most likely a reenactor.”

“
You’re positive they’re
not Ojibwe.”

“I can say with confidence they’re not made by anyone around
here. You’ll find the maker traveling the Rendezvous circuit.” He
handed the folder back to me, but I waved it away.

I spent the rest of the afternoon grocery shopping, picking up a few
things at the cleaners, making a stop at the drugstore and watching
some late-night television. Life goes on, even if that life is in
danger of being incarcerated with a “lifetime” sentence of murder
in the first degree.

Chapter 24

Friday—Week
Three

Satisfied that I had taken several positive steps toward clearing my
name, I put the photo riddle out of my mind and focused on my
preparations for three upcoming weddings.

My first meeting was with a
wedding party at the old flourmill that gave Colton Mills its name.
I’d found the mill area difficult to light and set up, but it
always produced some striking photos. Situated on the Oxbow River,
its water wheel was once again operational, thanks to historical
preservation efforts in the 1980s. The two-story, wooden structure
was situated at the bottom of a steep hill that was accessed by a
winding gravel road that allowed vehicles to descend gradually into
the valley.

Tall pines flanked the road,
lending an air of mystery to the descent, and they accentuated the
dramatic sight when you emerged into the mill clearing. The city had
taken advantage of the steep slope in front of the mill and built
amphitheater seating, with about twenty rows marching up the hill in
front of a stage that complemented the look of the old building. It
had become a popular venue for musical groups, weddings, and other
events.

I was winding up the nine o’clock
meeting, when Shannon, the bride-to-be, remembered a key part of the
ceremony that had slipped her mind in the bustle of activity. “How
could I have forgotten,” she said, pressing her hand to her chest.
“We have to leave space for a portrait of my best friend. She was
going to be my maid of honor, but she was killed in a car crash.” I
murmured something sympathetic in response. “I couldn’t bear to
go on with my wedding without having Kathleen in it somehow,” she
said. “Could you suggest an appropriate place for the picture . . .
one that will ensure she is an integral part of the ceremony?”

I made a few suggestions. “What
is your friend’s name?” I asked. “I’d like to add it to my
layout sheet.”

“
Kathleen Dewitt.”

I started to write the name,
when, without warning, it clicked on some other memory in my brain.
“Was . . . was your friend in an accident a few miles outside
Colton Mills last year?”

Shannon nodded. “Yes. Her
boyfriend was driving and lost control of the car on the ice. I miss
her so much.”

My heart had leaped into my
throat and I cleared it several times. “Did . . . do you know if
Kathleen had a horse?”

“
Why, yes,” she said.
“Midnight. She loved that horse.”

As I did. “I don’t suppose
you know Kathleen’s father?” I held my breath.

“
Not really.” Shannon stopped
to think. “She didn’t talk about him much. I do know his name is
Virgil.”

I tried to keep the excitement
out of my voice as I asked, “Where did Kathleen live?”

“
Right here in Colton Mills.
She had an apartment on Eighth Street.”

“
She didn’t live with her
father?”

“
Oh, no,” Shannon said. “He
lived somewhere in Wisconsin. Madison, I think. That’s why I didn’t
know him very well.”

“
Where did Kathleen live on
Eighth Street? Do you—”

My question was cut off by one of
her bridesmaids. “C’mon Shannon,” she said, pulling the
bride-to-be’s arm. “Let’s go. We’re late, big time.”

“
Sorry, Cassandra. We’ll talk
again sometime.”

Before I could utter another
word, they dashed off to her car.

As I drove toward town, I
couldn’t get Shannon’s conversation out of my mind. Virgil was an
interesting mystery man. He had battled Strothers and won. At least
for now. I wished I could locate him . . . to ask him questions about
Strothers, but mostly to see if he would consider selling Midnight to
me. Feeling more hopeful, I was eager to use what little information
Shannon had given me about Kathleen. Maybe, if I were lucky, someone
could lead me to her father

On an impulse, I turned off Main
Street onto Eighth. A short street, only a couple of blocks long, it
retained its postcard-perfect, small-town charm despite its proximity
to the center of town. Most of the apartment buildings in Colton
Mills were in newer sections of the city, but there were still a few
apartments on Eighth that had been carved out of the old, larger
homes. I parked my Jeep and started to walk. I estimated there were
about six houses where Kathleen Dewitt may have lived. They were all
well-kept, restored Victorian-era homes, set back from the street
behind century-old trees and shrubs. The leafy oaks and elms cast
cool shadows on the brick sidewalk.

I turned into the driveway of the
first house and strode up to the entrance under a grand porte-cochere
that had once sheltered guests leaving their carriages to enter the
house. Ascending the six broad steps, I entered the foyer where
tenants’ mailboxes had been retrofitted into the woodwork. I
skimmed the names, not really expecting to find Kathleen’s name
after all this time. I pressed the button labeled
manager.

A buzzer sounded and I opened the
great oak door, which admitted me to the inside of the house. I faced
a wide wooden staircase, winding its way to the second floor. A thin,
stooped woman, who looked like she may have come with the original
house, shuffled out from an office to the right. “May I help you?”
she asked in a wavering voice, peering up at me through incredibly
thick eyeglass lenses.

“
Could you tell me if you had a
tenant by the name of Kathleen Dewitt a year or so ago?”

“
Well, I wouldn’t know,”
she said. Then in a burst of authority that belied her frail
appearance, she continued, “And I couldn’t tell you, even if I
did know. That is, unless you’re law enforcement. You’re not law
enforcement, are you?”

For a wild moment, I considered
handing her one of my ID cards. Maybe a Visa card would do, judging
by her nearsightedness. But I thought better of it, thanked her, and
left.

I didn’t fare any better at the
next two homes. Then, at the fourth, one of the names on the
mailboxes caught my attention.
K.
Dewitt
. It was a long shot that Kathleen’s name would still
be on the box after a year. Dewitt was not a particularly unusual
name, and the “K” could stand for Kenneth, or Karen, or Kevin. I
hung around the foyer, hoping a tenant would enter the building and
shed some light on the occupant of Apartment 206. When no one came,
after about fifteen minutes, I made a note of the address and left
for Anna’s shop.

Anna
bustled happily toward me.
“Cassandra, I didn’t tell you,
but I sent a picture of the boots to Hugo, my contact in New York. He
thinks he can help you! He used his sophisticated equipment to
enlarge the part of the photo showing the boots and said he was able
to get a fair resolution, much better than you had. He agrees that
they were custom made. He’s never seen the type of beadwork down
the side of the boot. And . . . .” She clasped her beringed hands
in front of her and leaned towards me. “And he’s going to check
around with his contacts to see if they can find the craftsman who
made them.”
Disappointment must
have shown in my face. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

“
Yes, that’s great news,
Anna,” I said, although I’d have preferred to have a name
attached to the owner of the boots. “Any idea how long it will take
to hear from his contacts?”

She pursed her lips. “No, he
didn’t say. He won’t dawdle, though. I stressed that the matter
was extremely urgent. He owes me for some research I did for him last
year, and I’m one of his best customers, so that will help, too.”

“
Anna, I really appreciate what
you’re doing.” I hugged her. “Sorry that I want it done
yesterday.” Anna was one friend who didn’t have any connection to
Eric. I could trust her. She had my best interests at heart.
Nevertheless, I left the shop with a feeling of dread, wondering when
the next shoe would drop.

* * *

I
had almost forgotten about the Prairie River Band Powwow, which is
held every year. It was a small one, as far as powwows go, but
important to the participants. As the official photographer, I had to
attend, even though my interest and enthusiasm were at an all-time
low.

I left Anna’s shop around
12:30, famished and hoping to find something to eat at the powwow. I
arrived at the fairgrounds, cameras in tow, in time to photograph the
Women’s Jingle Dance. The rhythmic noise created by rows of now
mostly artificial, store-bought bird bones, deer hooves, or jingly
metal pieces lifted my spirits, and I was soon positioning myself to
photograph the dancers as they demonstrated their graceful use of
fans and other ceremonial regalia.

At the end of the event, they
swarmed around me, wanting to pose for individual photos. The rest of
the day progressed much in the same pattern, as I took pictures of
women gracefully performing in their colorful fancy shawls. The drums
beat out rhythms for the men’s grass and fancy dances and I snapped
away, filling my camera bag with several CF cards full of images.

At about half-past seven, I
finally pulled away from the fairgrounds. Reflecting on the status of
dinner makings in my newly stocked refrigerator and my level of
energy to make anything from them, I decided to indulge in fast food.
I pulled into the local drive-in and ordered a cheeseburger and
fries, making a mental note to balance the caloric overload with
equivalent miles on my treadmill. I relaxed against the seat and
drove through the takeout line.

As I turned the corner behind a
line of about a half-dozen cars, the houses on Eighth Street came
into view. Munching my burger, I drove slowly by the house to see if
I could learn anything. After driving around the block a couple of
times and down the alley in back of the house, I snagged a parking
place in the next block. I wiped away the last remnants of French fry
salt with a napkin, slurped the last of my Diet Coke, grabbed a
clipboard from the back seat to use as a prop, and sauntered back to
number 1310. It was still fairly early in the evening, and I hoped
some tenants would be out and about.

I climbed the stairs and walked
into the entryway. This time, I didn’t have long to wait. A
thirtyish man, just coming in from a run, huffed up the stairs and
took out his house key. He glanced over at me, where I was leaning
against the wall, my clipboard poised for action. “Are you taking a
survey or something?”

“
Kind of,” I said. “I’m
looking for a new apartment and don’t want to make the same
mistakes I’ve run into in other apartments.” Darn, I was getting
good at deception.

“
Like what?”

“
Oh, loud music, people
arguing, that kind of thing.”

“
This is a pretty quiet
building.”

“
Have you lived here long?”

“
Only a couple of months.”

“
Do vacancies come up very
often?”

“
I haven’t seen any vacancy
since I moved in, and I waited for this one for about six months.”
He inserted a key into his mailbox.

“
Do you know everyone in the
building?”

“
Almost everyone.” He stuffed
a number of envelopes into his shirt pocket.

“
What would you say is the age
range?” I pretended to make notes on my clipboard.

“
Most are about my age.”

“
I noticed on the mailbox that
there are some singles in the building,” I said.

He glanced at the names on the
mailboxes. “Out of ten apartments, I’d say eight are married
couples. Well, I’m not sure about one of them, because I don’t
know who lives there.”

Aha! “How could that be in a
building with as few apartments as this?”

“
Well …”

I peered at him questioningly.

“
Well, I don’t see anyone
coming or going from one of the apartments, but, sometimes, late at
night, I hear music.”

“
Yikes!” I said, feigning
alarm. “You don’t think the house is haunted, do you?”

He laughed. “I don’t believe
in ghosts.” He was inserting his key in the door, when he turned to
me again. “I’m probably reacting to the fact that the apartment
was rented to a woman who died, and her name is still on the mailbox.
Probably watching too many TV mysteries.” He glanced at my notes.
“This is a great building. Don’t let that affect your opinion of
the place.”