A Rendezvous to Die For

by Betty McMahon

  I parked in the driveway a few feet from the front porch. A light reflected through the drawn shades in what I assumed was the living room. As I trotted up the three steps of the porch and eyed the peeling paint of the front door, I was relieved to hear the rather loud sounds of the TV projecting out through the slightly raised window. I knocked three times and waited for Randy to come to the door. I knocked again, louder this time and with the flat of my hand, reasoning that with the elevated television sounds, he probably couldn’t hear me. It seemed rather odd that he wasn’t watching for me though. I was sure Jack would have called to tell him I was on my way.

  When he still hadn’t answered a few seconds later, I turned the doorknob and pushed the door open a few inches. “Randy? It’s Cassandra Cassidy. Sorry I’m so late!” I entered the house and stepped hesitantly into the living room. “Randy?” Inadvertently, I shivered. Something wasn’t right. I could sense it. Feeling stupid, I shook off my unease. I was acting like a ninny, instead of a self-confident woman determined to be her own investigator. I was simply visiting a new friend in a typical Minnesota farmhouse.

  “Randy? I’m here.” I walked more determinedly into the room and peered about me. Several lamps were lit, casting bright light on the furnishings, which were well worn. It was to be expected. Six kids had a way of wearing out anything upholstered and few men would go shopping for replacements, if they were comfortable with things the way they had always been. “Randy,” I called out again, literally bellowing this time. I felt like an intruder. I headed around the couch toward a doorway to what I assumed was the kitchen. As soon as I passed it, I came to an abrupt halt. “Randy?” My hand flew to my face and my shaking fingers covered the scream erupting from my mouth. With my heart in my throat, I clutched my chest and then reached out to brace myself on an end table. This was no time to pass out.

  Randy lay sprawled across the coffee table in front of the sofa, face down. A knife protruded from his back. His shirt was stained with matted blobs of blood.

  I don’t know how long I stood frozen in place. Trembling uncontrollably, my instinct for self-preservation finally kicked in. In mere seconds, I ran through the options facing me. I could simply leave and let someone else discover Randy. I could touch him, to see if he were still alive. I could . . . .

  There was only one choice I could live with, no matter what the future dictated. I fumbled in my shoulder bag, spilling half its contents on the floor, pulled out my cell phone, and with a shaky finger punched in 911.

  Chapter 9

  Friday

  By 7:00 a.m., the next day, my doorbell was ringing. Persistently. Still clad in pajamas and far too glum to protest, I shuffled through the kitchen and the living room to open the door. It was Anna.

  “I heard what happened, Cassandra,” she said, proffering one of Grizzly’s magical elixirs. “I doubted you’d be sleeping, so I came as soon as I could.” She wrapped her arms around me in a warm hug. “You’re shaking, girl. I’m so sorry.”

  “You’re right about my not sleeping,” I said, yawning. “I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again without being haunted by Eric and Randy. The cops. The questions.”

  Anna guided me back to the kitchen, where I sank onto the first chair. Shoving my coffee container onto the table, I propped my elbows next to it and dropped my chin into my hands. I felt listless, sick at heart, and completely doomed. Not even the smell of the steaming coffee or the knowledge that I would undoubtedly enjoy it got me out of my funk.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Anna asked, her voice infused with concern. “Or has the whole ordeal worn you out?”

  “No. I’ll talk about it,” I said, blowing my nose on a tissue. “I need to talk about it . . . with someone who doesn’t think I’m a double murderer.” My eyes flew to meet hers “You don’t, do you?”

  She scowled and pinched her lips. “Of course not! You were in an unfortunate place at the wrong time.” She paused for a sip of her coffee. “What were you doing at Randy’s, by the way?”

  I told her about my initial interview with Randy, and of how I thought he might remember more valuable facts about Marty’s connection to Eric. I blinked away a few tears. “You told me Marty’s wife and child left him while he was serving in Viet Nam, and that he hasn’t seen them since. When Randy told me about Marty’s reaction at the accident and that Marty tends to blow up easily, I thought there might be a connection to Eric’s killing. You know . . . that he has unsettled issues and he copes by inappropriately blowing his stack. I wanted to talk with him about it.”

  “And when you got there, you found him—”

  “Dead. I found him dead, Anna.” The wailing sound of my voice startled me, but I continued with my rising tirade. “He had a knife in his back! Why would anyone want to kill him? He was a shy, hardworking guy who helped the community by driving an ambulance.”

  Anna patted my hands. “It’s . . . unimaginable. What do the police think?”

  “Two murders in Clayton County within four days and I turn up at both of them?” I pushed myself to a standing position, but feeling weak-kneed, slumped onto my chair again. “What else could the police think, but that I’m the perp!”

  “Did they actually say that, Cassandra, or are you reading something into their questioning, because you’re, understandably, upset?”

  “They didn’t have to say, ‘you’re the lying perp,’” I said, weary to the bones. “I could tell by their questions and the way they handled me that I was the only one on their radar.” I swiped the tears from my eyes with still shaking fingers.

  Anna looked puzzled. “By the way they handled you? Did they mistreat you? Didn’t Lawton—”

  “No, no . . . they didn’t have the opportunity to do any serious mistreating, thanks to Lawton. He arrived just in time. I’ll be forever grateful to him. And to you, of course, for having an attorney for a brother.”

  “What will you do now?”

  I shrugged. “Would you believe it, Anna? I have all the law enforcement in Clayton County on my back. First, I had only Deputy Shaw, with the sheriff’s department. Now, the city police are going investigate me, too.” I pushed my chair away from the table and rose to a standing position. This time, my knees clicked into place. I paced back and forth, while thinking of my strategy. “I can’t simply wring my hands and let things happen willy-nilly. It would drive me crazy. I’ve got to find out what’s going on in this town. Someone has a serious grudge.”

  Anna pursed her lips and wiggled them from side to side while she thought about my outburst. “Is that wise, Cassandra?” she asked, finally. “Isn’t it better to leave this to the professionals? They can’t charge you with anything until they have proof. That’s the way the court system operates.”

  I stared out the kitchen window at a robin that was returning to its nest after finding the early worm. She was free to go wherever she pleased, whenever she pleased. “You have no idea how it feels to be in my position,” I said.

  “No, I don’t, so I shouldn’t be offering advice.” Anna managed a tight smile. “For at least a few hours today, however, you should close the blinds, turn off your phones, and try to get some sleep. You can think better when you’re rested.”

  I rolled my eyes, a habit I’d developed only recently. “Yeah, sure, after all this coffee I just downed.”

  She took my arm and guided me to my bedroom. After pushing me onto the rumpled bed, she grinned. “I brought you decaf . . . and I may have dropped a little something more into it. It should begin working within the next few minutes.”

  * * *

  By the time I awoke from Anna’s drug-induced sleep, it was already 2:00 in the afternoon. I wasted no time in continuing my private investigation. I set out to find Jack.

  His somber demeanor was unlike the Jack Gardner I’d seen in the last couple of weeks.

  “I’m . . . well, I can’t adequately express how I feel. I’m beside myself with grief.” He hurled a bridle onto a tack room hook
. When it hit its mark with a plunk, he cast a fleeting glance my way. “I’m sorry as hell you had to be the one to find him, Cass.”

  I shrugged and nodded, waiting for him to continue.

  “Try as hard as I can, I can’t come up with anyone who’d want to hurt Randy, let alone kill him.” He hung his head and scrubbed his forehead with restless fingers. “He didn’t have an enemy in the world. None that I know of anyway.”

  “How well did you know Randy?” I paced the stable floor, pausing to kick at a few hay bales. From the sides of my eyes, I observed Jack. Since I wasn’t an expert in body language, his grief appeared entirely authentic.

  His stricken gaze met mine. “We played the same rodeos a few times. He’d gotten to where he almost always finished in the money.” He stomped his foot and pulled off his cowboy hat. “Damn! What a despicable thing to happen to him.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve heard any particulars from your law-enforcement connections.”

  He smacked his hat against the stable door and then fiddled with the brim. “As a matter of fact, I did. This morning.” He glanced at me again. “You already know that Randy was stabbed in the back. They think the knife was thrown from across the room and he probably never knew what hit him. It has something to do with the angle of the blade and the deepness of penetration.”

  I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Any sign of a struggle?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Robbery perhaps?”

  “Who would know if anything is missing? He drove the ambulance part time for a job, so he barely made a living.” He wiped his forehead with a bandana pulled from his back pocket. “His entire net worth was probably his saddle and the chaps and trophies he won while on tour.”

  I kicked at the loose straw on the floor of the stables. “I don’t suppose you found out anything more about the weapon?”

  Jack grabbed a brush and began forcefully brushing a mare that had been tied in the aisle between stalls. “Only that it was handmade and old. A hunting knife.” He flipped the horse’s mane out of the way as he agitatedly groomed her.

  I leaned across the horse’s back. “You say the knife was old. Old, as in, say a 1950’s kind of old?”

  Jack stopped brushing. “More like an 1850’s kind of old.” He peered directly at me for the first time. “Have they been interviewing you, too?”

  “Interviewing? I’d say more like grilling. I’m their prime suspect.”

  “Damn, Cass, I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” I said, suddenly straightening and raising my voice. “I’m sorry that a so-called friend of mine sent me over to a murder victim’s house!”

  Jack’s head jerked toward me. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ll leave that to your own interpretation,” I said, turning to leave.

  Like everyone else in Colton Mills, I triple-checked my locks that night and seriously entertained the idea of buying myself a Rottweiler.

  Chapter 10

  Saturday

  I was out of bed by 6:30 the next morning and went right to work on my weight machine. As I had told Deputy Shaw, it takes muscle to haul around lenses and heavy photographic equipment. In addition to maintaining and even building muscle, the workout produced the endorphins necessary for sanity. On my mind throughout the entire sweat-session was the fact that it had been almost a week since the beginning of the worse week of my life.

  It was hard to imagine photographing a wedding, with everything that had happened. The idea of calling in “sick” quickly passed though. It wasn’t Lori’s fault her photographer was up to her ears in two murder investigations. I’d made a commitment to do her wedding and I would follow through. I checked and rechecked my gear and drove the now familiar route to Patriot Stables. I took several standard wedding shots before the ceremony—if you call “standard” posing the bride and groom against the front of a horse stall while cuddling their horse’s head between them. That done, I schlepped around the ranch with my camera, photographing family members and the bridal party on bales of hay, by the white-painted fence, and in other sites I’d previously identified.

  The wedding itself was to take place on a strip of land that had been carved out of the ranch by the Oxbow Creek when it cut through a slice of the property on two sides. A grove of cottonwood trees had grown up there and formed a picturesque site, especially with the covered wooden bridge, which allowed visitors access to the location. It was definitely a Minnesota summer-perfect spot. I’d photographed lots of theme weddings and this was one of the more fully realized ones. Guests whom had paid close attention to the invitation, which encouraged “casual cowboy dress,” perched on bales of hay. Those who didn’t used folding chairs.

  Living in small-town Colton Mills and photographing costumed affairs sometimes made me feel as if I were in a time warp. But, I’d wanted to get as far away as possible from the Big Apple, and to that end, I’d succeeded.

  As I zeroed in on some of Lori’s western-themed touches—a horseshoe archway, a pair of saddles flanking the entrance, bandanas on the chairs—I could hear my city-born-and-bred photographer mentor groan at the idea of participating in such a kitschy event. But artistic New York-training-be-damned, I’d been enjoying my Colton Mills career. As a foster kid, I was used to being the perennial outsider, so photography suited me perfectly. I could mingle among people as an integral part of the event, but be separate at the same time. That’s the way I liked it.

  As usual, the guests murmured among themselves as they were seated, their chatter playing in the background like elevator music. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I realized the conversation had taken on an entirely different cast. Instead of commenting about the weather, the bride, and the occasion, they were chatting about Randy’s murder . . . and I was the center of attention. I caught the gaze of a gray-haired lady guest, as she whispered behind her hand to her friend and my heart skipped a beat. I turned away, pretending to snap another photo over her shoulder.

  A rare sense of panic swelled inside my chest. If the murders were not solved soon, I may not have a professional life. Thankfully, before my wild thoughts could stifle my ability to focus on the wedding, I ceased to be the center of attention. I heard the Cowpokes’ rousing rendition of “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” and over the music the pounding hooves of a horse. The groom, decked out in a white western tux, with black boots and Stetson, circled his black Arabian around the entire site containing the seated wedding guests. He trotted to the front, made a spectacular 360-degree spin, dismounted with a flourish, and strode into position before the altar. It was one of the more dramatic entrances I’d seen, and I scrambled to get it all on film.

  When the band switched to “Love Can Build a Bridge,” the attendants strolled up the aisle in their Western dress and the wedding was under way. With the strains of “Here Comes the Bride,” the guests turned heads to take in the bride’s entrance. I was stunned to see that Jack was leading the white mare holding Lori, who was seated sidesaddle in her Victorian wedding dress. Lori’s father strode next to the horse and smiled up at his equally beaming daughter.

  I was continuously on the move for the next several minutes, snapping pictures of the ceremony and guests from every angle. I sustained this pace into the evening at the country club reception, where the cowboy theme continued. The Cowpokes belted out country-western two-steps and waltzes for at least two hours. I went through the process automatically, but with an edge of nervousness I hadn’t previously experienced. Clearly, I was a subject of interest.

  When I finally packed up my gear, it was late and I was both physically and mentally exhausted. I stowed everything in my Jeep and headed for home. A long, hot shower would feel divine. As I pulled up to the carriage house, I punched the remote to open the garage door. Nothing happened. Damn! What a night for the opener to fail. I parked and strode to the side door, feeling slightly irritated that my homecoming wasn’t as welcoming as I’d wa
nted it to be. Feeling around for the lock, I cursing myself for not turning on the deck light before I had left the house. Then I remembered the little laser light on my keychain and trained it on the door.

  Without warning, my heart was drumming against by ribs as my mouth turned dry as a year-old deer bone. I swallowed the gagging lump in my throat. The door was already open! Not only open, but also the wood was splintered around the lock. Someone has broken into my garage.

  The hairs on the back of my neck bristled as I dashed back to my car and locked the doors. That “someone” could still be in the garage, hiding in the dark. I whipped out my cell phone and started to punch in 911, but my fingers refused to make the connection. The idea of inviting the police to my place had me paralyzed. There would be more questions. More stares. More silent accusations. I sat perfectly still for several minutes. Thinking. Thinking and searching every inch of the property outside my confines with restless eyes. I’ll have to handle the situation myself.

  Trembling and feeling clammy from sitting in the car with no windows open, I slowly opened the door and stepped onto the pavement of the driveway. Hearing nothing, I dashed to the outside wall of the carriage house. Then, hugging the bricks, I inched my way back to the side entrance, pushed open the door with one outstretched hand, and then quickly stepped back. I had seen cops do that in the movies. Nothing happened. No gunshots. No blinding light. No escaping burglars. No inside noises. I reached around the corner of the doorway to flick on the lights. I tried several times. Nothing happened. The intruder had either unscrewed the bulb or turned off the power connection.