A Rendezvous to Die For

by Betty McMahon

  Back home and behind locked doors, I thought about him again. What in hell was that all about? I wondered. Am I such an easy quarry that someone sent an aging, out-of-shape farmer to follow me? Or, am I only being foolish and imaginative and spooked about anyone and everyone without a name I know and trust?

  * * *

  Sunday Morning—Week Two

  Knowing it had been exactly two weeks to the day since I’d found Eric’s body in the sweat lodge, I couldn’t spend the day alone. A trip to Grizzly’s for coffee and cinnamon toast was better than wrestling with my thoughts. While sipping latte, I read about the Colton Mills murders in the Sunday edition of the Minneapolis-Tribune. It reported no progress and an increasingly nervous population. “We are following up on some promising leads,” the police chief was quoted as saying, although he acknowledged there were precious few clues at the scenes of the crimes.

  Someone pulled out a chair and slid onto it at my table. I peered over the newspaper. “Jack, what are you doing here?”

  “I knew I’d find you here,” he said, propping his elbows on the table. “I found out some interesting stuff this weekend.”

  I folded the newspaper and placed in on the table. “How interesting?”

  “You know I went up north, right? A couple of my buddies from the sheriff’s department were there. They dropped a couple hints about the Rendezvous murder investigation.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “They’re thinking there could be a connection between the Rendezvous murder and those of Randy and Jim.” He tipped his Stetson to the back of his head and grinned. “You gonna buy me coffee for that? And something to go with it?”

  “Not sure,” I said. “It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out. The cops made that connection as soon as I turned up at the scene of all three murders.” I paused. “Did my name come up?”

  He nodded. “I heard your name a few times. But more interesting is the other name came up.”

  I set my cup down, giving him my full attention. “Whose would that be?”

  “Buy me coffee and I’ll tell you.”

  “Go get it and be quick! And get me a glazed donut . . . two of them. I’m still famished.”

  After Jack placed his mug on the table and shoved a plate of several donuts toward me, he ruffled the hair on the top of my head. “Seems that your landlord, Marty Madigan, knew all three of the victims. Quite well, in fact.” He reached for one of the donuts.

  “We already know that Marty knew Eric and Randy. Colton Mills is a small town. It’s no surprise that he’d know Jim, too. After all, Marty works closely with the Indians and Jim is Frank’s nephew.”

  “You’re right, it’s not a surprise he’d know them.” Jack removed his hat and scratched his head. “What is a surprise is that Marty has had run-ins with all of them.” He shoved the rest of the donut into his mouth.

  “Was the incident Randy told me about one of them?”

  “Yep.” Jack gulped down a swig of the hot coffee. “I think Randy downplayed to you what happened that day. He told the deputies about it over a beer afterward. They told me Randy could have filed harassment charges.”

  I used a napkin to wipe the donut sugar from my chin. “Randy thought Marty had a weird reaction to the injured woman from the accident, but I don’t think he felt assaulted. If he did, it would have made more sense for Randy to kill Marty than the other way around.”

  Jack gazed at me intently. “Maybe you’re right. I’m just reporting what I heard from the guys. They pretty much forgot about Randy’s connection to Marty, until one of them remembered the bad feelings between Marty and Jim Tuttle.”

  “Bad feelings with Jim Tuttle?” I bolted up straight. “Tell me about that!”

  “Marty has some conflicting ideas about the accepted way of life around here.” Jack held up his hand. “On the one hand, he takes part in these old-time Rendezvous, where they use animal skins and roast the meat over open fires.” He lifted his other hand. “Yet he’s almost violently opposed to trapping.”

  “And Jim was a trapper.”

  “Not only a trapper, Cass. He was an outspoken trapper. Marty’s been trying for years to outlaw trapping in the county, but every time he thought he was getting somewhere, Jim rallied enough support to ensure no bill ever got passed.”

  I spun my spoon in a circle on the table and glanced fleetingly at a couple passing our table. “How did somebody like Jim manage that?”

  Jack shrugged. “Here’s another interesting tidbit.” He lowered his voice. “Jim got help from his uncle, Frank Kyopa—your friend and president of the Prairie River Band. The Indians don’t want to see trapping go the way of hunting, so whenever it comes up, Frank sends his legal team to fight the fight.”

  I chewed on my bottom lip. “Hmm. Either of those issues could make someone like Marty mad and frustrated enough to resort to murder.”

  “Maybe, maybe not, on the face of it, Cass, but there may be more to it than we know.”

  I pushed back my chair and reached for my purse. “I’ll keep nosing around.”

  Jack took my elbow and guided me outside. “Meanwhile, I’ll keep in touch with the deputies and see if I can pry anything more out of them.” He walked me to my car. “Is everything else okay?”

  I nodded “Fine today, so far, but I think someone followed me while I was jogging yesterday.” I told him about the incident in the park.

  “Are you out of your mind? What were you doing in that park by yourself? You’re leaving yourself wide open.”

  “I suppose I could just stay in my house and drive myself mad, like my landlord.”

  “Cass, you’ve got to watch out for yourself.” He took hold of my shoulder and gave it a little shake. “Is there anyone you could stay with until this blows over? You’re isolated out there in the carriage house.”

  I nodded again. “Don’t tell me I haven’t thought of that. Marty’s out of town right now. So is Anna. And, no, I don’t have anyone I can stay with.”

  “I’ve got an extra—”

  “Don’t even think about it.” I wasn’t desperate enough to avail myself of Jack’s hospitality.

  “Suit yourself, Cass. Thought I’d make the offer anyway.” I climbed into my Jeep while Jack held the door open. “A lot of manpower in both the sheriff and police departments has been diverted to the Colton Mills murders, because they’re afraid whoever committed them may strike again. Do you have any kind of weapon? Just in case you should need one?”

  I squinted up at him. “If by weapon, you mean gun, then no, I have no weapon. I’ve never been into guns.”

  “Think about it,” he said. “I’ll loan you one of my firearms.”

  I laughed. “The only thing I’ve ever aimed and shot is a camera,” I said. “And isn’t there something illegal about borrowing somebody’s firearm?”

  “I’ll take you to a range where you can get up to speed in no time. As for any legalities, we can worry about that later.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I glanced at the dashboard clock. “I have to go, Jack. I have an appointment at 11:00 and I’m late already.”

  Even though it was a Sunday, I had made a call to Heather, back from her honeymoon, and arranged to show her the black and white proofs of her wedding. While we poured over them, she served me a sandwich for lunch and by the time I returned home, it was pushing 2:00. I had three hours of work to do in the darkroom to print the pictures she wanted. I still had plenty of time to put the project to bed.

  It was closer to 6:30 before I tucked the final folder into my briefcase for the next morning’s meeting. I made myself a boring scrambled egg sandwich and washed it down with root beer. After staring at the television for a couple hours, I decided to head for bed and read a novel. Just as I put my foot on the first stair step leading to the upstairs bedroom, a muffled blast came from directly outside the carriage house. I ran up the rest of stairs and opened the door at the top. Light flickered just outside my bedroo
m window. Fire. It was fire.

  I froze. Fire. Slumping onto the top step, I held my head and rocked back and forth as my mind played tapes of the fire that had plagued my dreams every night of my life. God only knew how long I’d have sat there, paralyzed with fear, if the piercing sound of sirens hadn’t snapped me out of it. I wobbled my way down to the garage, opened the overhead door, and stumbled outside.

  “Were you the one who called us?” a suited-up firefighter asked. “Someone called us on the cell phone, saying they had passed a fire.”

  “No. No . . . it wasn’t me. I-I live here, but . . . .” I could feel my bottom lip tremble.

  “Don’t worry, ma’am. I can see you’re a little shaken. The fire is almost out and it didn’t do much damage. It did wipe out the deck, but it’d take more than a fire to get through those stone walls.” He tapped the wall for emphasis.

  I wrapped my arms around myself to stop the incessant trembling. “I . . . I heard a loud sound . . . like a . . . like a bomb or firecracker or something. Do you know what c-caused it?”

  “I’ll leave that to the police to explain, ma’am.” He motioned toward a police officer who materialized out of the dark. “Glad you’re all right.”

  “The fire captain called me after they responded to the fire,” the uniformed officer said, whipping out a notebook and a pen. “Know anyone who might want to do you harm?”

  I pressed a hand to my forehead. What was he saying? “Why . . . why did you ask me that?” I said.

  “It looks like someone lobbed an explosive at your house, ma’am.”

  “To . . . to blow it up?” My voice sounded small and frightened. I bit my lip.

  “To start a fire,” the officer said matter-of-factly, making notes on his pad. “But they didn’t count on the fortress you live in.” He peered down at me, pen poised. “Any idea who might be behind it?”

  “I-I don’t,” I lied. He’d think I was a nut case if I gave him my list of possibilities.

  He finished writing up his report. “We’ll be in touch,” he said. “There’s nothing much we can do tonight, except scout the area for cars or people who shouldn’t be anywhere near this property. We’ve taped the area off and one of our techs will be out in the morning to gather evidence. Meanwhile, if you think of anything more that will help, call me at this number.” He handed me a business card with his name on it.

  I stumbled up the stairs and called Jack regarding his offer to help me arm myself.

  Sleep was elusive. As the fire in my dream threatened to envelop me, it intersected with the image of flames climbing the walls of my carriage house. I thrashed about, kicking the sheets away. I awoke coughing, in response to the real smoke still permeating my apartment. I pushed into my slippers and padded outside to see how much damage had been done from the firebombing. Within the crime-scene tape, scorch marks climbed up the stone wall nearly to my second-story window. The fire had burned away the cedar deck and fried my deck furniture. But the firefighters were right about one thing: it would take a much more serious explosive to dent the two-foot-thick carriage house walls. I did, indeed, live in a fortress.

  Chapter 20

  Monday—Week Three

  Finally showered and dressed, I paced my living room, ending up at the window facing the driveway. Who would go to the lengths of firebombing my house? Was it someone who knew that fire terrified me? I’m dealing with a maniac, I thought, shivering with the notion. When is this nightmare going to end?

  Once more, I checked my watch. It was only 8:30 a.m. I had agreed to meet Jack at eleven. That gave me plenty of time to deliver the finished wedding photos to Heather. As brides go, she had been easy to work with and I didn’t anticipate any problems. There weren’t any. By 10:45, I was on my way to Jerry’s, Colton Mills’ only sporting goods store, on the edge of town. Jack was leaning against the counter, arms folded over his chest. He arched his eyebrows when I strode resolutely up to the counter and eyeballed the selection of pistols and revolvers in the display case.

  “Here’s one I sell to a lot of women looking for a self-defense handgun,” Jerry said, holding out a palm-sized revolver to me. “It’s a compact .38 caliber, only five and a half inches long and weighing twenty-four ounces. It’s highly concealable and easy to carry.”

  “Carrying it is one thing,” I said, as I turned the gun over in my hands. “Pointing it at someone and pulling the trigger is the hard part.”

  “Looks like a good one,” Jack said, taking the gun from me. He asked for a couple of boxes of ammunition and we headed out to the range. The area was enclosed by a cyclone fence. Some beaten-up metal targets rose out of the ground at what looked to be a long distance away. We stopped next to a table and Jack explained the fine points of shooting to me. “You grip it like so,” he said, demonstrating how to wrap my right hand around the handle, “and place your index finger lightly on the trigger.”

  The gun, although a lightweight model, was heavier than it looked. I grasped it and put my thumbs in position to hold it steady, as Jack had instructed. Then I held it straight out in front of me and pointed the barrel toward a target.

  “I’ll bet you’re a natural Annie Oakley,” Jack said, reaching around me to fine-tune my grip. “You’re already strong from toting cameras and you know how to point and shoot.”

  “Yeah, but my tool of choice is held close to my eye, not at the full extension of my arm.”

  We moved to within about thirty yards of one of the targets and stuffed plugs into our ears. Jack loaded the cylinder, assumed a shooting stance, took aim, and pulled the trigger. The resulting blast wasn’t as loud as Marty’s booming black-powder pistol, but I jumped anyhow. By the time Jack had fired off all five rounds, I could handle the report without flinching. Pulling the trigger myself was another matter altogether. Jack stood behind me holding my shoulders as I gripped the revolver, extended my arms, and pointed the barrel.

  “Now, cock the hammer with your left thumb,” he said into my left ear.

  Hammer cocked, I braced myself, gritted my teeth, and pulled the trigger. The gun exploded at the end of my hand, pushing me back against Jack and jerking my hand up in the air. “My target would have been laughing uproariously with that shot,” I said, watching the splatter of sand that flew up when the bullet hit the earthen backdrop.

  “It’ll get better, Cass.” Jack smothered his laugh. “Before you know it, holding a .38 will be as automatic as holding your thirty-five mm.”

  “That, I seriously doubt.” I felt as if I were on a runaway bus, driving, but completely out of control. This latest step—arming myself—might help relieve some of my fears, but I was skeptical of how I’d handle myself in a situation that required a gun. Being a realist, however, I knew I had to take steps to defend myself and not remain a sitting duck. I was turning some undefined corner in my life. Where, I wondered, would it take me?

  “Let’s try again,” Jack said, showing me how to plant my feet and point at the target. By keeping at it for the next hour, I managed to ding the target with at least one out of five bullets. It increased my confidence, but not much.

  Back in the parking lot, Jack bumped me with his shoulder as we strolled towards his truck. “You were bearing down on that target like your life depended on it,” he said. “Were you seeing any face in particular?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Then I dropped the news I’d so far neglected to share with him. “The carriage house was fire-bombed last night.”

  He stopped, grabbed my arm, and spun me around. “Damn it, Cassandra!” he said. “I told you to get out of that place until this is all over. Now maybe you’ll listen to me. The only good thing is you don’t live in that firetrap where you used to live.” We resumed our trip across the parking lot. “Did it do much damage?”

  “Some. The deck was destroyed.” I kicked a stone out of the way. “But more to the point, I’d like to know who is doing this to me, Jack.”

  “I talked with one of your top suspects toda
y,” he said, pausing. “A Mr. Guy Strothers.”

  My head spun around so fast I almost got a whiplash. “What did you just say? What kind of conversation?”

  “Strothers stopped at the stable today. He pounded me with all kinds of questions about one of our boarders. Virgil Dewitt.”

  “Midnight’s owner?”

  “Right.”

  “Is he interested in buying Midnight?” The thought of not having him in my life hurt.

  Jack shot me a worried look. “He asked a lot of questions about the horse, but they weren’t questions an experienced horse person would ask. I think he was more interested in Virgil.”

  I relaxed a bit. “What did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t even tell him his name,” Jack said. “We just talked about ‘the owner.’ But he kept bringing the conversation back to the owner so often, it bothered me.”

  “Like . . . how?”

  “Like whether the owner comes to the stables to ride him and, if so, when he comes. Like how far away the owner lives. He came right out and asked me where he lives, on the pretense that he’d like to see him to talk about the horse.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “Of course not. Anyway, I couldn’t, even if I’d wanted to. I don’t know where he lives. He always pays Midnight’s board in cash.”

  “How often does he come?”

  “Once a month. And on those visits, he rarely checks on Midnight. He just peels off a couple of bills and he’s out of there.”

  I stroked my forehead and felt the worry wrinkles. “I’d sure like to know what drove Strothers to drive all the way out to the stables to ask those questions. Anna knows a lot about him and she’s due back in town tomorrow. I’m going to ask her if she knows of any connection between . . . what’s his name?”