“See this here tradesman,” he said, gesturing toward the last man on the stage. “Y’all know you can tell a lot about a man by lookin’ at his garb. Like his occupation, his wealth, and social standin’. You see he’s wearin’ a natural-color linen shirt. Pure white cloth was the most expensive you could buy in the 1830s. Fancy prints are a little cheaper. Next down the line is stripes, then solid colors, and the cheapest is the natural color. That’s ‘cause they didn’t have no Clorox bleach, only lye, so dyin’ fabrics was cheaper. That’s why colors cost less than white and that’s why our tradesman has chosen natural linen.” He thumped one of the men on the back. “So, what’s yore name . . . Bad Eye? We can guess yore jest startin’ out in yore tradin’ career. Is that a fact?”
Bad Eye nodded. “Yessir, I’m jes startin’ to bring goods to Rendezvous gatherin’s.”
By now, I was bored and lost in my own thoughts. I was proud of how Marty had stood up to his accusers, although it remained to be seen if pugnacity was the best strategy in light of the serious trouble he was in. One of the most interesting events of the evening was that my friend Willis had been appointed the “go to” person for any information that would help solve the crime. I made a note to keep in close touch with him.
Chapter 17
It was close to 3:40 p.m., when we emerged from the meeting and began the fifteen-minute drive to my house. I relaxed against the car cushion, happy to be the passenger for once. “Marty and Willis seem to have struck up a friendship,” Anna said, maneuvering out of the parking lot. “Did you notice they chatted through much of the presentation?”
“Yes, I noticed,” I said, hoping that Willis was gathering information from Marty that would help my own cause. I let my gaze drift lazily along the pine trees lining the two-lane road, enjoying the scenic ride I sometimes took for granted as I rushed from one assignment to another.
On a short stretch of straight road, a vehicle accelerated to pass us. I tensed and jerked to a straighter position. Anna shot me a quick glance. “Every time a car passes us, you relive that scary incident you had in the rain, don’t you?” Her eyes followed the vehicle increasing speed ahead of us. “Speaking of that incident, Cass, look at the SUV’s license plate.” She sped up to make the letters more readable. It was a vanity plate made up of seven capital letters: strthrs. Anna and I looked at each other, our mouths agape. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking,” she said.
“Strothers,” I muttered. “Speaking of the devil. I wish I’d noticed if he had any scratch marks on the passenger side of his vehicle.”
“Let’s see where he’s going, Cass. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” Anna increased her speed just enough to keep a safe distance behind the vehicle still in easy sight. Instead of turning toward my house, we continued on the winding two-lane highway that passed through a wooded area abutting the river. Ten miles later, the road veered away from the river and trees and straightened into a narrow ribbon flanking fields of corn on both sides. The vehicle ahead picked up speed in response to the straight road.
Anna raised her penciled brows at me. “What should I do? Keep following him?”
“If he doesn’t go too much further, let’s just see how this plays out. Okay?”
Anna speeded up again and we drove another twelve miles or so. Suddenly, the driver ahead applied his brakes. He made a screeching right turn onto an unpaved country road, churning up dust and gravel as he barreled along. We followed the dust trail for about ten minutes, when it abruptly ended. “Where did he go?” Anna brought her vehicle to a stop and peered about for signs of Strothers’ car.
“He must have turned again,” I said, craning my neck over my shoulder to see. “He was kicking up so much dust, we couldn’t see five feet in front of us. There . . . there he is.” I pointed to Anna’s left. The outline of an SUV was barely discernable, before it vanished over the rise of a hill.
Following more carefully now, we finally came to another stop by a narrow driveway marked by a dilapidated mailbox perched precariously on a rotting wooden post. “Guess there’s a house out here somewhere,” I said, “but it’s anyone’s guess. No numbers or name on the box.”
“We’d be fools to go up that driveway, Cassandra. No telling what we’d find. If we’re chasing a killer, I don’t want to put either of us at risk. What should I do?”
I kept my eyes glued to the long driveway, wondering what was at the other end and why Strothers was out in Timbuktu. For a big city guy, that seemed peculiar, to say the least. “I think you should turn around and head for home, Anna. We’d be crazy to purposely put ourselves at risk. At the very least, we’d embarrass ourselves, if it turns out Strothers is simply having supper with friends.”
Anna made a U-turn and headed the car in the direction we’d come. “I’m surprised you’re giving in without arguing about it first, Cass. Your common sense is in charge.”
After she dropped me off at the carriage house, I went into a funk. I microwaved myself a frozen Lean Cuisine supper, visited the bathroom, shuffled through the mail, and continuously watched the clock. I put a load of dirty towels in the washing machine, cleaned up the laundry room and could not shake the feeling that Strothers was not dining with friends.
More than three hours passed. It was daylight saving time, so dusk was definitely delayed. At 9:20 p.m., my adrenaline was still pumping and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get to sleep. I had to do something. Anna and I had been mere minutes away from learning whether or not the elusive Strothers had used his vehicle to shove me off the highway in a storm.
Without thinking any further and possibly discouraging myself from taking action, I grabbed my small digital camera and clipped it onto a strap around my neck. I buttoned one of my red shirts over my tank top, dashed down the stairs to the garage, and climbed into my Jeep. “This is simply too good an opportunity to pass up,” I told myself. Checking out the SUV would either confirm or eliminate it as the car that had tried to feed me to the Oxbow fishes.
Not even the fleeting thought that Strothers may be long gone squelched my determination to investigate. I refused to listen to warnings that he could very well meet me on that deserted country road. I knew I didn’t have much time to find the right turnoffs before it was completely dark. I glanced at the dashboard clock. It was already 9:45 and the sun was slipping behind the horizon. I followed the route Anna and I had taken earlier, congratulating myself for having a photographic memory. I slowed when I neared the well-hidden driveway. Since the road was not visible from what I assumed would be a farm, I saw no need to cut my headlights, but I put them on low beam. About a quarter mile past the driveway, I found a bumpy farm road heading into a field. I parked the Jeep behind a row of bushes that had long ago been planted as a windbreak and trekked back to where the driveway loomed out of the now-complete darkness. It was now 10:25.
Nervousness prickled continuously at the back of my neck, competing with the adrenaline still coursing full speed through my veins to keep my on edge. Skulking around at night was not my style, and the usual angel on my shoulder seemed to have deserted me. I didn’t care. I’d been robbed in a break-in, purposely pushed off the road, and verbally threatened. I was snatching at what might be my only chance to get something solid on Strothers that I could take to Deputy Shaw.
I shined the woefully inadequate laser light from my keychain on the driveway and then swept the area round me. Ditches on both sides were filled with grassy weeds about waist high, but other than these grasses, there was precious little cover. I inched up the driveway, praying that whoever lived at the end didn’t have guard dogs. I hoped, too, that the exercise wasn’t in vain . . . that the vehicle had not left in the time it took me to drive home and back again.
Topping the knoll where I’d seen the SUV disappear, I thought I saw the outline of a house. While covering another ten yards, I peered through the moonlit darkness surrounding it, searching for the object of my mission. Bingo! There it was, as big as life, parked directly in fron
t of the dilapidated porch. My heart leaped to my throat. Was anyone outside? Was anyone watching me? My camera bumped against my chest with every step I took. A beam of light from a window illuminated a few feet of the yard. If not for the darkness surrounding me, I would be in plain sight of anyone from the house. What should I do? Run directly for the SUV, take my pictures, and head back to my Jeep? Be more cautious. Take a risk? Check out who was in the house with Strothers?
I took a quick survey of the property. The house was dominated by the sizeable barn a hundred feet or so to the left. I could barely make out a pickup truck and assorted machinery that littered the yard surrounding it. Although the driveway had no cover, trees and shrubs of various sizes peppered the farmyard. To reach that sparse cover, I’d have to negotiate a no-man’s land of empty space. I squatted on my heels. I needed a clear head. The good news was that, so far, no patrolling dogs had announced my presence.
I could make out a figure repeatedly passing in front of the window. I surmised there were at least two people in the house. Who was the other person? Did I need to know? I had come to check out the SUV and to photograph any potential damage. It was a powerful magnet, teasing me to proceed in spite of my reluctance. What to do. What to do!
Without another thought, I sprinted toward the yard, gasping as I skidded behind an ungroomed bush. On my knees and as still as a stone, I collected my thoughts and listened. The front door was open. Angry voices carried through the night air to the outside. I crept closer and found refuge behind a lilac bush next to the porch. I moved a branch just far enough to peek through the leaves at the doorway. A man was seated at a table. I could only make out his outline. There. Another man. He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place where I’d seen him. He was older and dressed in farmer jeans held up by red suspenders . . . considerably overweight.
I peered through the leaves, wishing I dared to take a few pictures. Suddenly, another man appeared, pacing back and forth in front of the table. He smacked the palm of his hand for emphasis and raised his voice. I clutched my throat. I’d know that voice anywhere. Strothers.
What was he saying? He’d been in the house for several hours. What was going down? It didn’t seem like a friendly meeting.
Once more, I scouted the area around me. Did I dare creep onto the porch to hear the conversation? What would the men do to me, if they learned of my presence? The SUV was fully exposed, but the side that may have come into contact with my Jeep was on the far side of the house. If Strothers’ vehicle had rammed me off the road, there should be some evidence of it—red paint or, at the very least, scratches. I’d have to wipe off the door first. It would be covered in dust from the road. It would be challenging to photograph the side of the car in the extremely low-light conditions. As close as I’d be to the car door, even if I used a flash at all, all I’d end up with would be an overexposed blob.
Once more, I weighed my options. Creep onto the porch and listen to the conversation. Creep to the SUV, take my photos, and leave. Common sense ruled again. I unbuttoned my red shirt, slowly removed it, and wadded it into a ball. I’d have to use it as the rag to clean off the car door. I shivered, even though it was in the sixties . . . a not untypical late June evening in Minnesota. Using my laser light, I set my camera for low-light, close-up shooting. Then, checking to ensure no one was about to come into the yard, I tiptoed toward the vehicle. With every careful step, gravel crunched under my shoes, bringing me to the brink of a heart attack. I knelt next to the passenger side door and rubbed my wadded-up shirt across the door panel as hard as I could. It was too dark to tell if there were any scratches or red paint. I’d have to take the photos and hope it showed up on film. I dropped the filthy shirt to the ground, lifted the camera into position, aimed it, and pushed the shutter. To my edgy sense of sound, the click seemed unnaturally loud. I held my breath and waited several seconds. When nothing happened, I clicked off three more shots.
Then, without warning, I lost my balance and tumbled backward onto the driveway. My arm shot out to break the fall and, somehow, my finger hit a button that activated the flash. An instantaneous flash of light burst forth from the camera. Immediately, the voices inside stopped. Someone shouted from the front door. “Turn on the damn yard light!”
I skittered behind the vehicle. Light flooded the yard.
“I tell you, I saw a light out here,” Strothers said. I could hear him clomp down the few porch steps and start cross the yard. I moved cautiously to the rear of the SUV, praying that he was making too much noise to hear me. I couldn’t make it to the barn shadows undetected. I had to stay close to the vehicle.
“Bring me a flashlight,” Strothers ordered. He stood in the yard waiting for the light. A minute later, he shined it around the yard, finally turning the light toward his SUV. The beam lit up the area around the driver’s side and moved to the back. I willed myself to blend into the side of the vehicle. I cringed, terrified, as gravel crunched beneath his boots. Three more steps. That’s all I had. He’d be on my side of the vehicle.
BOOM! Pop. Pop. Pop. Just as the light swung in my direction, fireworks rocketed into the sky over the tree line. “Aw, hell,” one of the men said. “It’s close to July 4th. Someone’s just shooting off a few rockets. That’s the light you saw. Come on back to the house.”
I could hear Strothers spin around and knew he was watching the last remaining sparks in the sky. The sound of his footsteps heading back toward the house was a welcome one. I took my first breath in minutes.
“I’m all through for tonight,” he said. “Follow up on what we talked about, and let me know what’s going on by the end of the week. Don’t disappoint me.” The porch door banged shut and, before I could take one step toward freedom, I could hear Strothers stride toward the front of his vehicle. I scooted to the rear. Once inside his vehicle, he started the engine. He put the car in gear and started to back up to make a U-turn. Feeling desperate, I grabbed the spare-tire frame mounted on the back of the door, and fly-like, planted my feet on the back bumper. As the vehicle rumbled down the driveway, I held on tightly, praying all the while—God, don’t let me be visible to the men on the porch.
Fortunately, they had other things on their minds. We were less than fifteen feet from the house, when the yard light was turned off. We were plunged into darkness again. When the SUV slowed to go up an incline, I let go and fell back onto the end of the driveway, landing on my left side. The gravel bit into my bare skin. Quickly, I rolled into the ditch. A full minute later, I dared to sit up and access the damage. Nothing, including my camera, appeared to be broken.
Not until I was halfway home did I remember that my wadded-up shirt was lying in the dirt of the farmhouse yard. My mouth went dry. What were the odds they’d find the shirt? More to the point, what were the chances they’d hand it over to Strothers and he’d recognize it as mine? The chances were good, on all counts. For the first time, I regretted that my red-shirt uniform was so easily identifiable.
As exhausted as I was, I couldn’t wait until morning to see the results of my escapade. I had to spend time in the darkroom immediately. An hour later, I examined the first photo. All I saw was an indistinct blob. Ditto for photos two through four. “Damn!” I had wasted my entire evening and lost a few patches of skin for a dangerous stunt that yielded nothing. Worse, I had left incriminating evidence behind.
Chapter 18
Friday—Week Two
I awoke by 6:15 a.m., determined to tease something out of the dismal digital images I’d downloaded the night before. Again, three indistinct splotches filled the thumbprint squares. Not good. Not completely disheartened, I turned to my computer software for assistance. It had performed miracles before. I saved the photos and clicked on Photoshop.
For several minutes, I manipulated the first image for brightness and contrast, hoping to work some magic on the dark smudge that filled my screen. As I viewed the black blob, I relived my nighttime adventure. In my mind’s eye, I saw my shirt lying in
the driveway waiting to be discovered. A cold chill ran through my body. I’d acted on impulse, something I’d been prone to do most of my life. But this time, spying on a possibly dangerous man, in the middle of the night and at a remote farmhouse, was far more foolhardy than anything I’d ever done. There would be a consequence to pay. What kind, I couldn’t imagine.
Forcing myself to keep working, I saved the changes to a hopelessly indistinct “Photo #1” and opened “Photo #2.” I reduced the brightness by ten percent and increased the contrast.
A lifetime of acting impetuously hadn’t turned out so badly, I decided, while attempting to console myself. A string of impulses several years ago had factored in putting me where I was—in front of my computer, trying to bring some resolution to the damnably indistinct images. My mind drifted back to the Insignia Club, a tiny bar-restaurant outside Minneapolis. I’d landed there as a waitress after a couple of years at the stables in Ridge Spring. Scott had landed there, too, snagging a solo guitar-playing gig on Friday and Saturday nights. The guy had mesmerized me from the get-go and the attraction was mutual. One thing led to another, and when Scott left town for New York, I followed him on a Greyhound bus a week later.
Life in New York was exciting. I found another waitressing job and, on the weekends, I basked in the reflection of Scott’s growing popularity as he played to ever-increasing rave reviews. After six months, it seemed like a good idea to get married. So we did.
I loved being Mrs. Scott LeCaro. I loved the friends we made, who were mostly other musicians and waiter-types hoping to make it big in something besides waiting tables. Life was good. Life was fun. After a year, my Scott—who was now dubbed by music writers as a “steel-string master of beguiling chords and fast progressions,”—decided to take his show on the road. I stayed in New York, at least at first, and waited for him to come back.
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