“Don’t rightly know.” Jack shrugged. “Unfortunately, I’ve been too busy to throw a saddle on him. He’s turned out and hooked up to the walker every day, which is helping some, but he really needs to be ridden.”
I patted the head of a dainty buckskin that came looking for a treat. “Why doesn’t the owner sell him, if he doesn’t ride him?”
Jack rewarded her with a nugget he pulled from out of his pocket. She took it and turned away. “I’ve suggested it to him, and all I get is a ‘definitely not,’ so I’ve quit pestering him. I’ve been looking for another rider who’s capable of handling him and who has the time to do it on a regular basis. The owner is willing to pay someone to do that.”
I headed for my car. “Of all the boarders here, there’s no one who can or wants to do that?”
Jack snorted. “You’ve seen the horses in this stable, Cass. They’re mostly Quarter Horses, and most everyone is interested in western-style riding. The riders want to learn how to cut cows and barrel race. That’s why they hired me. Midnight, on the other hand, is a Tennessee Walker who direct reins, English-style, and wouldn’t know a cow from an elephant.”
I chuckled as I opened my car door and slid behind the wheel. “And he certainly wouldn’t know the moves these Quarter Horses make.”
Jack propped his arm across the hood of my vehicle. “You should know, Cass. You learned how to ride in a Tennessee Walker stable and . . . .” He slapped the palm of his hand against his forehead. “Why didn’t I think of it before? You can ride him!”
“Oh, no,” I said, inserting the key into the ignition. “My riding skills are too rusty to handle a horse that hasn’t been ridden in more than a year. Besides, I’ve got enough on my mind, without adding Midnight to my troubles.”
“Riding a horse is like riding a bicycle. You don’t forget how to do it.” Jack reached into my car and switched off the ignition. As he pulled me out, he grinned. “You were a damn good rider. I know. I taught you myself. What better way to get your mind off your problems than to ride.” He took hold of my arm. “C’mon, let’s go see him.”
I let him lead me back to the paddock. He grabbed a halter hanging on the fence, opened the gate, singled Midnight out from the horses, and led him out onto the grass. “There, look at him,” he said, stroking the horse’s neck. “Isn’t he a sweetheart?”
Midnight had one white star on his forehead, the only white in his otherwise all-black coat. He regarded us through a set of intelligent brown eyes. I reached out and patted his nose. He didn’t move away, but stood as I scratched behind his ears. In spite of myself, I was softening.
“Let’s take a closer look at him,” Jack said. He led the horse to the arena and hooked him up to a long lunge line. As he let out the line, Midnight walked slowly in a circle. Jack clucked to him and picked up the pace, settling into the smooth walk that defines the Walker breed.
More than a decade had passed since I’d ridden regularly. As I watched Jack skillfully perform his routine, I pictured myself on the horse’s back and was hooked. “Okay,” I said, throwing up my hands. “I’ll see how it goes.”
Jack grinned. “All his stuff is still in the tack room. I’ll get it for you, along with a waiver you’ll have to sign. Then you’re good to go.”
I took Midnight’s halter and led him back to the paddock. Working with the horse turned out to be the diversion I needed. After only a couple sessions of groundwork and some riding in the arena, I took him outside. He danced around and swung his head back and forth a few times, but I soon had him under control and headed for the trails that wound through the woods around the stables. Only minutes before, I couldn’t understand how I could or why I’d even try to fit an animal into my life. Now, I couldn’t imagine life without him. I was blown away by his elegance and beauty and charmed by his happy whinny. I had, quite simply, fallen in love with the creature.
* * *
On the way home from the stables, I called Janine. Fortunately, the library kept evening hours. I asked her to gather all the newspaper articles she could find on the political turmoil resulting from the environmental impact study. If she had the newspapers themselves, I would make photocopies. Ditto for those on microfilm.
After eating a late supper, I spent the rest of the evening poring over the material. The drama played itself out in almost daily articles for a couple months. The commission got a good taste of Strothers makeup. The initial EIS strategy had backfired, big time. When the EIS was filed, instead of backing down and leaving town, Strothers adroitly took the offensive and turned the tables. He sued the Indians, because they hadn’t advised him of the hazardous material at the site, which essentially put the onus on the Indians, making them responsible for the problem, instead of Strothers himself.
“I came to Colton Mills in good faith, to build something of value for the Indian community. I feel I was double-crossed,” he crowed to a TV reporter. “Frank Kyopa and his team knew of the hazardous waste on the property and should have made it public knowledge. I never would have pursued my project, if I had known the situation existed. Kyopa allowed me to get sucked into the development plans, knowing all along that he intended to provide the commission with the shocking information too late for me to do anything about it.”
I stopped reading and thought about Strothers’ comment. Was he implying that Marty was used as Frank’s pawn? With every interview and article, Strothers proved himself a master manipulator. His star brightened with every letter that appeared in the newspaper.
“I think it’s appalling the way Strothers was treated. The man came all the way up here from Chicago with a plan to help the Indians with affordable housing, only to be bushwhacked by the tribe when he had already spent considerable time and money on the project,” wrote one letter writer. “The Indians are getting greedy now that they have the casino. They don’t want anyone else to participate in their good fortune.”
Strothers seemed to have several people in his back pocket. Jack and I already knew about his connection with Eric, although I still hadn’t figured out how to use the information. He seemed to be skillfully leveraging all of his contacts to sway public opinion in advance of the impending lawsuit. Dennis Overland, commission chairman, was one of his biggest supporters. Janine had filled me in on his background. He’d made a career out of attaching himself to the coattails of others, using his football-star charm to carry him when his actual business talent failed. He had dropped out of college, after a second-season injury made him ineligible to play, and returned to Colton Mills. He made his first “career move” by marrying the daughter of the town’s oldest milling family. The family moved into insurance, when milling went downhill, and had a well-established business in town when Overland joined them as a broker. His engaging personality and glad-handing ways served him well in the insurance game, and he had made a good name for himself by the time he was appointed to the commission. But Dennis had bigger fish to fry. Janine had said getting on the commission was his first step toward state office. And on that path, he allied himself with whomever he thought could help him most.
Big-city, rich, and powerful Guy Strothers was just that kind of man. Overland made the commitment to support him and was contributing to Strothers’ public-opinion campaign in spades. The two were often photographed together, socializing at the Friday-night fish fry, contributing time at the town’s county fair, presenting a check to the local women’s shelter, or fielding questions about the development and upcoming decision on his lawsuit. The naïve local reporters fell prey to his magnetism, and the savvy Strothers turned them on to his planted Chicago contacts, who provided only positive input. As a result, articles appeared, touting how he’d helped local communities through his building and charitable involvement.
In article after article, however, my landlord was getting the short end of the stick. He was continuously identified as being opposed to progress and working against the wishes of the townspeople and, especially, the Indian tribes. I
n the most recent articles, he was not even subtly connected to the Rendezvous murder. Clearly, he was outclassed by the master of spin.
The articles also mentioned Frank Kyopa and his efforts to counter Strothers’ allies, but he, too, was losing the battle. Frank’s direct, confrontational manner did not play well in the media. The more he said to defend himself, the deeper the hole he dug.
Even though the EIS research was proceeding, its status was swept off the pages by the impending lawsuit. In the final analysis, it didn’t really matter if it eventually stopped the development or not. If Strothers’ strategy were successful—and it looked more and more as though it would be—he stood to gain as much in a financial settlement from the now-flush tribe as he would have gotten from a successful development.
After I had dumped all the articles into a trashcan, I went to bed. There was no good reason for me to keep them. I had learned all I needed to know about Strothers and Frank and Marty and their opposing viewpoints about the proposed housing development, and I was no further along in pinpointing any of them as Eric and Randy’s killer. Now I knew why it was taking Shaw and the police so long to arrest someone. Sir Walter Scott said it all, when he wrote, “Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!”
Chapter 16
Thursday—Week Two
After an early-morning ride with Midnight and a couple errands, Anna called. “I’m attending a meeting of the Rendezvous Society this afternoon,” she said. “I thought you’d find it interesting. Want to tag along?”
“Sure,” I said. “The subject is currently an interest of mine.”
“I’ll pick you up at 1:15 sharp.”
The Rendezvous Society met in a Civil War-era building that was the county courthouse until about 1899. Abandoned by the county in favor of a new courthouse built a hundred years later, the brick building housed the Odd Fellows hall for decades, until the group could no longer maintain it. Pigeons, bats, and rats inhabited it for a quarter century, until the town’s Historical Preservation Society raised enough funds to restore it. It was now used as the meeting place of several Colton Mills social groups.
About a dozen people—all men—were already seated in chairs fronting a foot-high stage that ran the length of the room. A heavy maroon-velvet curtain served as a backdrop for the occasional community-theater drama, if it didn’t require a professional-lighting setup. Some of the men were dressed as Rendezvous characters. Others were in street clothes. Marty and Willis sat next to each other the first row.
Anna and I took seats in the back, just as a buckskin-clad man jumped up onto the stage. From what I’d seen at the June Rendezvous, he was a mountain man. He had a rifle in his hand, which Anna told me was a Flintlock. His fringed hunting pouch, slung over his right shoulder and attached by an inch-wide leather strap, fell to his waist on the left side. A powder flask, also attached by a leather strap, crisscrossed the pouch’s strap in front, falling to his waist on the left side. A sheathed knife was stuck into the waistband of his buckskin leggings. He wore no hat. His brown hair, pulled back into a ponytail, revealed a silver earring loop in his left ear.
“Welcome Ronnyvooers,” he said in the hoarse voice of a habitual smoker. “I’m Muskrat, jest back from three months of trappin’ out in the Rockies.” He smiled broadly, revealing several missing teeth. It wasn’t clearly apparent if the missing choppers were part of the authentic costume or if the person behind the Muskrat disguise was actually missing teeth. He shaded his eyes and squinted into the audience. “Is Jeff here?” he asked. “Jeff, git your sorry butt up here.”
A man, not dressed for Rendezvous success, sauntered onto stage. “Thanks, Muskrat,” he said in a Chamber of Commerce voice. “And thanks for coming, members and guests.” In the next few minutes, he took care of several items of old business, finances, and new business. ”We especially want to thank Five Paws,” he said, nodding toward Willis Lansing, “for last month’s demonstration on sewing leather. Next month, we’ll hear from Leaping Turtle, who’ll discuss quill writing and paper making. It promises to be an informative evening. But right now, we’re happy to have Muskrat with us. He’s going to discuss authenticity in clothing. Muskrat has been attending and studying our Rendezvous event for two decades.”
Before Muskrat could begin, a hand shot up in the audience and a man rose to speak. “A coupla’ weeks ago, a man was kilt at our Ronnyvous. One of our own is suspected in that death. Are we gonna jes bury our heads in the sand and pretend it don’t happen?”
“Hear! Hear!” chorused the audience.
Jeff, apparently from the press-release school of managing conflict, responded in a more business-like manner. “The investigation into this incident is having a negative effect on all reenactor groups, Wild Boar. As soon as this is resolved—which I’m confident will be soon—we will get some positive articles to the local press and reverse any damage that’s been caused.”
Wild Boar jumped to his feet again. “Negative effect? Damage control? Shee-it! If that don’t beat all. We otta face this thing square in the eye . . . like real men!”
Most of the group applauded, hooted, and shot their fists in the air. A second man joined Wild Boar. “The question is . . . could the murderer act’lly be one of us? Maybe right in this room?” He pointed his finger, scanning the entire audience. The voices hushed.
Wild Boar leaped onto stage to take control of the discussion. “What do we know fer sure about the crime, folks? One, that he was killed with a ’hawk. Two, that ’hawk belonged to Tomahawk Pete. No question about that.” He stared straight at Marty.
“No. No question ‘bout that,” Marty said, shaking his head. “The ’hawk was definitely mine. Every one of you has seen it a dozen times. You know it by the brass nails.”
“Not to mention yore initials on the blade.” Wild Boar’s eyes sparkled and he grinned, satisfied with the way things were going.
“Yeah, that, too,” Marty said, in a softer voice. He lowered his head.
“We all knows the victim and you had no love fer each other. That’s right, too, ain’t it?” The self-appointed moderator wiggled his chin whiskers, like a character from an old Gabby Hayes movie. It seemed that he was about to judge Marty guilty.
Marty wasn’t going to take that sitting down. He popped up in his seat and raised his voice. “I didn’t kill Eric Hartfield, but if anybody deserved killing, it was that man. He was the kind that gave vermin a bad name.”
“Those’re fightin’ words, Tomahawk Pete,” Wild Boar said.
“I’ve never been one to mince words.” Marty peered at the audience, not afraid to meet anyone’s eyes.
“The sheriff is workin’ on two premises,” the speaker said, regardless if anyone was listening to him or not. “Either you planned the hit and set out to do him in. Or, you met him, got in a rip-roarin’ argument, and ’hawked him.”
Marty took two long strides toward the stage and, for a second, I thought he was going to attack the speaker. But he threw up his arms, as if pleading to the group. “Would I have used my own ’hawk, if I had set out to kill Eric Hartfield? Would any of you?”
“Probl’y not,” Wild Boar said, squinting more closely at Marty. “Maybe someone else stole yore ’hawk and used it. How easy would it be fer someone to do that?”
“Pretty easy,” Marty said, running his hands through his hair. “I don’t lock up my gear. Never had to. Didn’t see a reason for it.”
Another frontier-outfitted man stood up. “There ya go, men. Believable facts. In all my years comin’ to gatherin’s, I’ve never had nothin’ stole from me. Ya can’t lock a tent, y’know. I once left a long rifle outside after a night of imbibin’ and when I got up, the rifle was lyin’ on my table and someone had even dried her off. The folks in this community is honest.”
Wild Boar nodded agreement. “From what I’ve heard, the line of fellers that hated the rat who was kilt would stretch from here to Wisconsin. We think yer off the hook, Tomahawk
Pete.” He and a couple others turned and gazed in my direction. Apparently, I wasn’t an anonymous guest in this gathering. “Let’s keep our eyes and ears open. Maybe we should choose someone to help us keep track of any leads we get. Who’d like to be that person?”
“I nominate Five Paws,” shouted a mountain man in the third row.
“Any other nominations?” Wild Boar said, taking charge. When none were forthcoming, he pointed at Willis. “You willin’?”
“If that’s what you’d like,” Willis said, standing and nodding around to the attendees. “Whatever I can do to help.”
“Okay, Five Paws it is.” Wild Boar banged the butt of his ’hawk on the lectern. “Whatever you folks can think of that can help our police solve these two crimes and get Ronnyvooers off the hook—and Tomahawk Pete in pa’ticular—get in touch with Five Paws. But now, since Muskrat has prepared a program, let’s hear what he’s got to say.” He turned to Muskrat, who had faded into the background. “Some of you have worn outfits that you want Muskrat to critique. If you’d like to come up on stage, we’ll proceed with the regular meetin’.”
Three men obliged.
Then Muskrat took center stage.
“Now, most of you know one of the most important things about bein’ a Ronnyvooer is pickin’ a character. And the second most important is dressin’ that character in the correct garb.” His gaze took in the three guinea pigs. “Looks like we got us a trapper, a buckskinner, and a tradesman. Buckskinner here has done a good job. Nice possibles bag. Knife is appropriate to the 1830s. But a buckskinner prob’ly wouldn’t wear Nike hikin’ shoes.”
The hiking shoe comment drew a laugh from the audience.
“When yore completin’ the outfit, look for moccasins, the kind you can lace up to your knee, or boots of the period. Havin’ the wrong footwear is the mistake that most people make. When you’re pickin’ a pair of boots, remember that 1830s boots didn’t have right or left feet. Trapper, yore lookin’ good, too. You might make it more authentic by carryin’ a trap and some skins. And, fer God’s sake, be sure you know how to set those traps without losin’ a finger.” Muskrat chuckled at his own little joke.
A Rendezvous to Die For Page 12
