A Rendezvous to Die For

by Betty McMahon

  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—”

  “That’s an understatement. gal.” Marty slurped coffee from his mug.

  “Has he ever . . . threatened you, because of your position against his development plans?”

  “Hell, yeah, he’s threatened me. He’s threatened almost everybody in this town. Why, he’s probably even threatened you.” He chuckled and reached for a second muffin.

  “He has . . . in a way,” I said.

  Marty’s chuckle died and he slopped coffee onto the table. “How’d you get on that scumbag’s bad side?” His eyes flashed and a scowl line deepened over the bridge of his nose.

  “Well . . . actually, it has to do with you,” I said, wiping up the coffee spill with a couple napkins. “He thinks he’s put two and two together and come up with me as the bearer of some sort of information between the Indians and you . . . information that affects his business plans.”

  “That’s nuts!” Marty’s face had grown visibly red. He pushed back his chair with a loud screech, rising as though to leave. He was clearly angry.

  “Wait. There’s more,” I said, easing him back down in his chair. I told him about my confrontation with Strothers in Grizzly’s, and how Strothers had voiced his certainty that I had told Marty about the old paint factory on the reservation.

  “That bastard! I’ll—”

  “There’s more.” I told him about someone’s attempt to run me off the road, only a couple hours before I had the altercation with Strothers.

  “He’s a hothead,” Marty allowed. His frown relaxed somewhat, and he settled back into his chair. “But no matter what I think of the man personally, I can’t see him trying to run you off the road, then confronting you in the coffee shop right afterward. That doesn’t make sense, even for him. I have to concede that I’m known as a hothead, too.”

  “If he didn’t do it, who did?” I shot back. “And why?”

  Marty picked up a third muffin and devoured it in three bites. “What does Shaw think?”

  I shrugged. “There are no witnesses. I get the feeling he doesn’t believe it ever happened. Anyway, he said the incident is in the police’s jurisdiction, not the sheriff’s. And the break-in is being investigated by the police department, too, so Shaw’s not directly involved with that either.”

  “These damn jurisdiction fights!” Marty said, his voice rising again. “If those folks weren’t so involved in their petty jealousies and shared their investigative information, they’d solve more crimes!”

  “Yes, well—”

  Marty was on his feet again. He strode to the window and turned. “Do you know where the sheriff is in the murder investigations?” he interrupted. “It still boggles my mind that two of them have taken place in one week. That’s two more than I’ve seen in my lifetime.”

  “I haven’t heard anything.” I paused, stirring my coffee. “Have you?”

  “I know some things and others I can guess at from working closely with law enforcement over the years.”

  I peered at him more closely. “Apparently, whatever they’ve found doesn’t exonerate either you or me, or I wouldn’t be hearing from Shaw on a regular basis.”

  “If you factor in only the one crime scene that took place in the sweat lodge, we would be the main suspects. Your footprints were at the scene and my ’hawk was imbedded in Hartfield’s head.”

  “Everyone knows why I was at the sweat lodge. I’m a photographer. I take pictures of everything that takes place at such an event as the Rendezvous.” I rose and put our empty mugs in the sink. “Do you have any idea how the killer got your tomahawk?”

  Marty headed for the living room to reach the entry door. He stopped to examine a couple framed photographs on the wall and then straightened one perfectly straight picture. His gaze scanned the rest of the room. “I’ve thought and thought about that, Cassandra. A lot of people have been to my house over the years, and just about everyone knows where I keep my ’hawks. But I can’t see that anyone I know well would have taken it or killed Eric. I keep thinking someone stole it, though. It wouldn’t have been hard to do. I never locked them away.”

  I thought about that, but worked at keeping a straight face. It sounded like a convenient excuse. “How about fingerprints at the scene?”

  “It’s hard to get fingerprints off materials in a place like the sweat lodge, and I doubt they have the technology for it anyway. But . . . I’m sure they’re trying.”

  “What about fingerprints on the tomahawk?” More information. I need more information.

  My landlord winced and lowered his voice. “The handle was splattered with blood. And there was a lot of that, as you know from being at the scene.”

  “Actually, I don’t know,” I said and shuddered. “I was in shock. I don’t remember any details, Marty.”

  He scratched his head, massaging his forehead. “Wouldn’t you think, when the perpetrator left that scene, that he’d be covered in blood and that someone would have seen him?”

  “You’d think so.” I fingered my scar and chewed on my lower lip.

  “The deputy said there was no sign of a skirmish or any indication that Eric tried to defend himself.” Marty wagged his index finger at me. “He’s trying to figure out just how the crime took place. Was someone waiting inside for him? Or outside? Was Eric there to meet someone? Was he killed outside or at some other scene and then carried into the lodge? For such a violent crime, the crime scene doesn’t have very many clues.”

  I handed Marty his hat, which he had tossed onto a chair by the entry. “I’m hoping something breaks in the case pretty soon so I can get my life back.”

  “You and me both.”

  Through the living room window, I watched Marty cross the driveway and stride toward his house. Then, I danced all the way back to the kitchen. Yes! I did it! For the first time in days, I felt a surge of hope. “Way to go, Cassandra!” I said aloud.

  Then I quickly folded. I learned the police had no fingerprints, the tomahawk was covered with only Eric’s blood, and there was no sign of a skirmish at the lodge. The only physical evidence they had was my footprint at the scene . . . and a possible hair Shaw kept taunting me about. People had been convicted on less evidence.

  I hadn’t asked Marty a thing about how well he knew Randy or if he had ever visited his home or if he knew anything about that weapon. Of course, I still held two pieces of information. Strothers had threatened Marty . . . enough to be a motive for getting rid of him. And Eric had probably been blackmailing Strothers . . . a reason for Strothers to kill
Eric. That last piece I had not shared with Marty. But . . . what could I do with the information? And what did any of it have to do with Randy?

  Chapter 15

  Wednesday, 5:35 p.m.

  Knowing I needed even more information, I decided to make another trip to the stables to visit Jack. I hoped he would agree to elicit a few more answers from his touted friends in the sheriff’s department. After parking, I headed for the horse barn. Jack was busy mucking out one of the stalls. “A little light on stable hands today?” I said, teasing him.

  “Damn unreliable kids!” He tossed a forkful of damp wood chips into a cart, then leaned on the fork, appraising me. “What brings you here so soon after our luncheon tête-à-tête, sweet lady?”

  “Since our meeting, I’ve had two interesting ones with Willis Lansing and my landlord.” I told him what Marty had learned about the crime.

  “How’d Marty know all that?” He pulled the stall door closed.

  I walked with him as he wheeled the cart through the barn. “He said he found out some of it and guessed the rest of it. Jack . . . do you think your friends in the sheriff’s department would have some inside information they’d be willing to share with you?”

  He threw me a look from the sides of his eyes. “I’ve already made plans to head that way this weekend. I’ll see what a few friendly beers can pry loose.”

  We’d almost reached the end of the barn. A teenage boy appeared at the doorway, out of breath from running. ”Sorry I’m late,” he said. Jack thrust the fork in his hand.

  We walked towards my Jeep. “By the way,” I said, “How’s the black gelding? Is his leg healed?”

  “Midnight’s coming along great. Matter of fact, the owner said he’d like to see the horse ridden and exercised on a regular basis.”

  “Good idea.” I leaned on the wooden fence, spotting Midnight among the horses in the paddock. “Looks like he’d be a great ride. What’s he like anyway?”