A Rendezvous to Die For

by Betty McMahon

  “Virgil Dewitt.”

  “Right. Between Strothers and Virgil Dewitt.”

  On the way home, I reiterated where I stood. Law enforcement held most of the cards and most of the tools needed to solve the three crimes. What did I have that the police and sheriff might not have? Marty had bad feelings toward all three of the victims. Eric had been blackmailing Strothers. I had a flimsy photo of Strothers’ truck at the Rendezvous, but I couldn’t very well tell them how I got the picture. I had seen Strothers drive to a farmhouse outside the city and hold a several-hours meeting with a man in overalls and red suspenders. I had seen that suspendered man on a hiking trail and taken his picture. Strothers had questioned Jack about the owner of a horse.

  Back in my darkroom, I knew I had two tools that might give me an edge—my camera and my computer. And, I had some hazy images on a disc the sheriff didn’t know I possessed. Putting away all my concerns about who was out to “get” me, I carefully examined the dozen parking lot photos, to see if I could put Strothers or any of my other suspects at the scene. I went over them again with the Mac equivalent of a fine-tooth comb. Trying all the tricks my Photoshop program could provide, I clicked on the magnifying zoom tool and pointed it in the corner of the first image. A click of the mouse doubled the portion of the image.

  I proceeded through the first photo—across, down, across, down—until I’d explored every inch of it. All I had to show for the tedious exercise was close-up shots of vehicle doors, windows, an occasional face or arm, and a few stretches of empty parking lot. The next two photos revealed as little as the first one. I remembered that when I’d returned to the parking lot on the day of the Rendezvous, it was still fairly early in the day, so most attendees of the event had already vacated the parking lot.

  The next two photos showed a couple of stragglers strolling toward the Rendezvous grounds. The first one in my zoom search was a woman. The second had possibilities. It showed a man walking toward me as I snapped his picture. Unfortunately, he had turned his head at that very instant, resulting in a blurred image. I printed out the photo for further examination anyway and moved on to the next one, hoping I had taken another shot with the man facing me. But the next one was more of the same—vehicles and the stomped-on grass parking lot.

  I switched my focus on the as yet unexamined group of six hoping they would be more revealing. The first photo revealed nothing more than trees and more parking lot. The second showed a shape of what looked to be a person in the periphery of the shot. I opened the next image, hoping to see more details. For once, I had turned the camera in the right direction. A man was approaching the parked vehicles from the edge of the lot, which was bordered by trees. Was it a man? Hard to tell. The person was wearing a long coat that extended to the top of the his/her footwear. The good news was that I had a full shot. The bad news was that the face was hidden by the morning shadows and a fur hat was pulled over the eyes. I printed the picture and moved on to the next two. They caught a portion of the person again, just at the edge of the photo. The last two photos showed more parking lot and trees.

  I returned to those revealing a person and zoomed in again, studying the image inch by inch. A beard was peeking out from the turned-up collar of the coat. I could now assume the mystery person was a man. I printed out a stack of close-ups to examine side by side. The man’s outfit suggested he was a Rendezvous participant. I tried to recall if I’d seen the man in the dozens of photos I’d taken at the event. My memory was defective, so I brought up the entire portfolio of computer images and ran through them to see if he appeared again. No luck.

  With my brain fried, I decided to take a break, lift some weights, and put a few miles on my treadmill. After my workout, I showered and changed. As I was pulling on my shirt, the image of the man crossing the parking lot popped into my head. Something about that picture bothered me. The thought sat just beyond my consciousness and wouldn’t come forth. I put in a call to Anna and she invited me to meet her for a couple drinks. “Bring the photos with you,” she said. “Maybe I can help. And let’s hold our repast at Red’s Roadhouse.”

  Red’s Roadhouse was a new supper club that had opened up a couple of months ago. Anna had stopped in one night and pronounced it “just fine,” which I took to mean “fine by Colton Mills standards.” With my head feeling as if it were in overdrive, I looked forward to an evening of alcohol-inspired downshifting. The roadhouse still retained the shake-shingled outside wall that had defined the former establishment. Now, however, the door had been painted a bright red. Inside, chrome and stainless steel had replaced the heavy dark wood and the reds favored by seventies supper-club designers—red booths, red drapes, red carpet. There must be a supper-club designer bible somewhere, for I’d seen the same look in many towns. Red’s was a decided improvement. Maybe in twenty years, critics would scoff, but I was impressed. Mrs. A would have pronounced it “ritzy.”

  The dining room was on the right. I turned left into the bar. It was dark. Across the room, a dim light illuminated a guitarist who was perched on a stool and strumming in an unfocused style, as if he were looking for chords he’d lost. At first, I couldn’t see much of anything, after coming in from the lighted room. I shaded my eyes, to find Anna. As my eyes adjusted to the lack of light, a raised arm waved me to a booth against the wall and midway across the room. “Hi, Anna,” I said, as I leaned in for a hug. The startled face of another person swam into my field of vision. “Willis! I’m so sorry. I thought . . . .” I was without words to explain my faux pas. My familiar world wobbled on its axis. Anna grinned from her place beside him. “Nice to see both of you.” I tossed my briefcase onto the bench before me and slid onto the padded seat across from them.

  “Nice to see you too, Cass,” Anna said, purring like a contented kitten. No explanation about Willis, but what did I expect from someone with Anna’s aplomb? I ordered a Sam Adams.

  Anna filled me in on her recent buying trip. Willis told Anna about our black-powder-shooting afternoon. I sipped my beer, relaxing. The guitar player had found his groove. A very nice one, I thought dreamily. Original stuff with riffs that could make Eric Clapton take notice.

  Anna was giggling. “Cassandra, you are much too immersed in the 1840s.” She leaned toward Willis, who fondly took her hand in his own. The tableau unnerved me. What was Anna drinking?

  “Speaking of the 1840s, I’ve got something to show you,” I said, pulling out my briefcase. Just as I reached for the photos, Jack’s .38 clattered onto the table.

  “Why, what on earth, Cassandra?” Anna threw me an alarmed look. “When did you start carrying a firearm?”

  I hastily replaced the .38 into my briefcase and pulled out the folder of photos. “I had a couple of scary incidents while you were away.” I filled her in on the man in the woods and the firebomb incident. “Of course, that’s in addition to my darkroom being trashed.”

  “That’s awful, just awful!” She clasped her hand over her mouth. “Who do you think is responsible?”

  “If I knew that, the guy would be in jail. Could be anyone, I guess.”

  Anna reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “I’ve told you Strothers is a vindictive man, Cassandra.”

  “I think Strothers is after someone else in this area.” I told her about his visit to the stables.

  “Virgil Dewitt,” she said and frowned. “That name doesn’t ring a bell.” She turned to Willis. “Do you know him, Willis?”

  “No, I do not, Sorry,” he said, sipping his glass of wine.

  “I’d really like to know if Strothers has some connection to Dewitt,” I said. “Do you think any of your Chicago friends could help?”

  She nodded. “I’ll call a friend there. She may know who he is.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Anna.” I fanned the photos out on the table, facing Anna and Willis. “But, meanwhile, I have another mystery to solve. I took these in the Rendezvous parking lot the day of the murder,” I said. “In fact, it could have bee
n near the time of the murder. I had returned to my car to replace my battery packs and shot these on my digital. Do you find anything unusual about them?”

  Anna studied them closely through her half glasses. “The man’s dressed in frontier clothing,” she said. “What was the temperature that day, do you remember?”

  “It was really hot for June,” I said. “In the eighties. I remember sweating up a storm.”

  She tilted her head, pursing her lips. “Isn’t it rather strange that the person is dressed in a fur hat, long coat, and long, laced-up moccasin boots on such a hot day? People who dress for Rendezvous try to stay in character, not only for the period, but also for the weather. He must have been sweltering in that outfit.”

  I’d totally missed the significance of the winter clothing. Maybe that was what was so jarring about the photo. “Do you recognize any of the clothing, Anna?”

  “That would be a difficult task, Cassandra. The clothing we wear for such events is pretty generic,” Willis said, pointing at one of the pictures.

  Anna peered again at the photo she was scrutinizing. “Here’s another thing that’s really strange,” she said. “What do these boots look like to you?” She pushed the photos towards me.

  The man’s pants were tucked into the boots and the coat nearly covered them. In one of the photos, the boots were clearer as his coat fell open as he walked. I shrugged. “Everything the participants wear seems strange to me, so I’m not the one to ask. What do you see?”

  “They have designs on them,” she said. “I find that odd, because the rest of the outfit is pretty standard.” She stroked an exquisite silver bracelet on her wrist.

  “Does it look like the guy’s trying to disguise himself?” I persisted with my questions. I had already learned more that I had known before entering Red’s. “He’s so covered up, Anna. From what you’ve said about the weather and choice of outfit, this guy doesn’t seem to know much about authentic clothing. Maybe he pulled a fur hat over his eyes and donned a long coat so he’d pass for a Rendezvooer, if anyone saw him.”

  Anna glanced up in surprise. “I assume you’ve already searched through all the other photos of Rendezvous participants that you have?”

  “Yes,” I said, gazing at the top photo. “The guy in this outfit doesn’t show up in any of them. And I can’t remember seeing him there either.”

  “Well, it is an intriguing idea, Cassandra, ” Willis said, snapping his finger against the photo, “but you cannot make the jump to accuse anyone of being a murderer merely from this picture. You’d have to find the clothing in the person’s possession and, even then, still not have proof that would stand up in a court of law.”

  I fiddled with my beer, making wet patterns on the tabletop. “If I can find a way to do that, I’ll do it, Willis.”

  “Please be careful, Cassandra,” Anna said, a frown etching her forehead. “I know you want to get to the bottom of this, but you’re playing a dangerous game. I’ll see what I can do on my end. For starters, I’ll try to find out about Strothers’ potential relationship to this Virgil Dewitt.”

  “Good,” I said. “I’ve run out of places to look.” My tone brightened. “But . . . I’m going to see what I can find out about those boots.”

  “Well, that’s a safer course of action. Stop in and I’ll loan you some books about frontier clothing.”

  I excused myself and headed to the ladies’ room. There, I smiled at myself in the mirror. “Willis and Anna, who would have thought,” I said to my reflection. “They make a nice couple.”

  Approaching our booth, upon my return, I saw a fourth person had been added to our threesome. Anna smiled. “Cassandra,” she said, gesturing to a man seated across from her, “this is Nick Parker, a friend of mine who used to live in Colton Mills.” It was the guitarist.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking hands with him. My eyes burned into Anna’s, but she strategically shifted hers to her new best friend, who was now taking up half of my side of the booth.

  He quickly scooted out of the booth, ran his fingers through his longish salt and pepper hair, and mumbled, “Nice to meet you, too.” He gestured for me to enter the booth and then slid in after me.

  Even with a couple of Sam Adams beers under my belt, my instincts told me I was being set up. This meeting had all the earmarks of Anna’s perennial orchestrations. A gremlin on my shoulder told me not to be so self-centered, that when I was under the influence of Sam Adams I can misjudge situations. Despite my misgivings, I reacted to his touch and felt my face warming. Must be just because I haven’t been with any interesting men lately, I thought. But I was getting wa-a-y ahead of myself. “Nice playing,” I said, hugging the wall. “But why haven’t I heard of you before now?”

  “He just came into town this week,” Anna chirped, her hands fluttering.

  I focused on removing the label from my bottle of beer. “Oh, you’re a traveling musician,” I said, my voice flat.

  “Nope, afraid not,” he said. He chuckled and turned toward me. “Red’s is the only place you’ll have the privilege of hearing me. Playing is strictly a hobby.”

  “Nick is planning to resume his career as an EMT,” Willis said. “He will be managing emergency services for three counties.”

  With that, the miniscule stage lights went up and Nick headed for the stage. I couldn’t wait to take up Anna’s matchmaking when Willis wasn’t around. Matter of fact, I’d also take up the “Willis” matter. We chatted on about the weather, Anna’s business, and Willis’ hobbies, completely avoiding the Rendezvous investigation.

  As soon as I felt I could leave Red’s, I headed for the door, surprised that I felt a little tipsy. How much beer did I have anyway? As I was about to push open the door, it opened for me. Preoccupied, I didn’t notice who had performed the courtesy until a hand clamped on my upper arm and the instigator had pulled me outside.

  “I thought I recognized your Jeep,” Strothers said, propelling me across the parking lot. He flipped a cigarette onto the pavement. “C’mon. I’ve got something to talk to you about.”

  My stomach churned as he half-pulled, half-carried me. I felt weak and scared and reproached myself for letting down my guard. I knew I should shout, scream, do something, but I couldn’t penetrate the Sam Adams fog.

  Strothers’ fingers pinched my arm. My boots dragged on the asphalt, making a rasping sound in the night. Everything moved in slow motion. I saw the ordinariness of the parking lot lights sending their diffused light onto the parked cars. Insects drifted like snow through their amber glow. A slight breeze sent a Dairy Queen napkin skittering along the ground. At the edge of the lot, a girl laughed aloud and, in the periphery of my vision, I saw a knot of teens perched on the concrete abutment, passing a bottle among them. They ignored the two of us.

  We had reached the shadows and I could see his vehicle. What would he do, if he got me into his vehicle? Gathering all the strength I could, I twisted away from him, dropping to the ground as I did so. It was just enough to make him relax his grip. I tried to run, but stumbled, the stones of the parking lot biting into my knee.

  Strothers was on me like a hawk on a mouse. “Get up, bitch,” he growled, sticking his face near mine. I smelled his beery breath. He had me by my hair, but he had been thrown off balance when I tried to get away. He hesitated just long enough for me to pick up my foot and kick him in the crotch. He gave an explosive grunt and dropped to his knees, letting go of me. I ran, drunkenly zigzagging toward the patch of light that was the Roadhouse. I collapsed against the door.

  My next memory is of someone was stroking my forehead, holding my hand. “You’re going to be okay,” he said, his face so close that a lock of salt-and-pepper hair brushed against my face. “We’ll take care of you.” I closed my eyes. The last thing I heard was the sound of sirens, coming closer and closer.

  Chapter 21

  Tuesday—Week Three

  I awoke the next morning by 6:16, feeling decidedly groggy. I remem
bered staying in the Emergency Room just long enough to have my scratches treated and pull myself together. By the time Anna dropped me at home, I had been primed for sleep. With a dozen things on my mind, now, I was eager to get into my darkroom again. An hour later, I was pulling photo paper out of its last chemical bath, when the doorbell rang. “Who is it?” I said, shouting.

  Marty’s gruff voice was equally loud. “It’s me. Marty.”

  For a heavily bearded, robustly built guy, Marty always looked good—clean, well pressed, and physically fit. But not today. Even the hat pulled over his hair could not disguise his uncombed mane. His bushy beard needed a trim. Bleary-eyed, his clothes looked and smelled as if he had slept in them for several days. He stood in front of the door, feet apart, hands on hips. He not only looked like a wild man, he looked like an angry wild man.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he asked, by way of greeting. “I got a call from the sheriff that I might want to get my ass home, because somebody fire-bombed my house!”

  “It’s obviously true,” I said, gesturing toward the scorched wall and taking in the temporary walkway the fire department had laid down across the ruined deck.

  We stood side by side, surveying the damage to the deck and the sturdy wall. Although the wall was unscathed, flames had charred the stones all the way to the roof. My deck chair—what was left of it—lay in a pool of debris-littered water generated by the firefighters. The acrid smell of fire still hung in the air.

  “Damn it,” Marty said, slapping his hat against his thigh. “Do you have any idea who did this? Or why?”

  “I’ve got my suspicions, but nothing I can prove.”

  He eyed me with interest reflected in his face. “I must say, I’m mighty confused. Just can’t understand why you’ve ended up in the middle of this.”

  “Do you think you should have been the target instead?”

  He gave me a piercing look. “I was a target, but not with a fire bomb.”