As I left the church, I discovered my disguise hadn’t been as successful as I’d hoped. A couple of reporters had positioned themselves outside. As I filed past them with a group of mourners, they pushed a microphone into my face. “Miss Cassidy, do you have any idea who killed Jim Tuttle? Did you have anything to do with it?”
I pushed them aside and escaped to my vehicle. Shoving the shift into gear, I had started to drive away, when someone rapped on my window. It was Deputy Shaw. He made a motion for me to open my car window. “I’m glad to see you were paying your respects to Jim,” he said by way of greeting.
I waited, staring vacantly through the windshield over my steering wheel.
“It’s very curious . . . you showing up at all these murder scenes,” he said, leaning casually against my vehicle.
“Tell me about it,” I said, being sarcastic. I finally looked at him. “And it’s wearing me down.”
“Is there anything you’d like to talk about regarding my investigation of these three murders?” He peered at me with beady eyes. I stared back at him with clamped lips.
He tried for a smile, but it resulted in something more like a grimace. “My records show you were with Jack Gardner when you discovered Tuttle’s body. Is he a friend of yours?”
“A sort-of friend. From the stables.” I slipped the shift stick into gear again and started to roll up the window.
Shaw took a step back, but held up his hand to stop me from leaving. “Has he discussed the connection he had with Eric Hartfield?” Despite my reluctance to let Shaw know he’d scored a hit, my head jerked up involuntarily and my mouth fell open. “By your reaction, I’m assuming that either you didn’t know or you’re surprised that I know.”
Nothing … absolutely nothing Shaw could have said would have shocked me more. Not only shocked me. I felt like the proverbial three-legged stool that had one leg kicked away. I was thrown completely off balance. The deputy stood with his arms crossed over his chest, regarding me with a smug look on his face.
“In case you don’t know, Gardner was the father of Eric’s sister’s child. Gardner skipped town before she had the baby and Hartfield never forgave him for it. Then Gardner showed up in town a year or so ago and Eric went looking for him. Who knows what transpired between the two of them? Maybe something that would make Gardner want to eliminate Eric. Can you shed any light on that theory for me?”
My mind couldn’t absorb what Shaw was saying. Jack not only knew Eric, but could have had the best of all motives for killing him. I could feel Shaw watch my facial reactions, as I processed the information. He leaned into the window again. “Want to talk about it?”
I finally found my voice. “I-I don’t know anything about it.”
“You have my number,” he said, flipping his notepad closed and backing away.
Numb with shock, I drove out into the street with such care, I felt like a senior citizen who had just received a speeding ticket. How was I was going to handle this latest development? Why had Jack withheld such important information from me? I needed to talk with someone I could still trust.
“You look like you’ve lost your best friend,” Anna said, as soon as I entered her shop.
“I was at Jim Tuttle’s funeral,” I said. “I hope I never have to attend another one under these circumstances.”
She bustled over and draped her arm around my shoulders. “I do, too, Cass. No one should have to go through what you’ve experienced these past two weeks. I’ve got some news that could possibly brighten your day, though. I know more about Strothers and Virgil Dewitt.”
“I could definitely use some news about Strothers.”
“When I was flying home last week, I sat next to a real estate developer from Chicago. She gave me her business card. I thought since she was in that business, she’d probably followed Strothers’ development activities. I called her.” Anna steered me to the back of her shop and pushed me onto the antique sofa. “She said she’d look in her files and fax me what she found. Ten minutes ago, I got a fax from her.”
“Anything useful?” Suddenly, I felt hopeful of a break.
Anna cocked one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Something you’ll at least find interesting. It turns out that Virgil invested in one of Strothers’ office developments about five years ago. The project didn’t go well and Virgil sued him for breach of contract. According to his lawsuit, materials and workmanship were substandard. Strothers refused to accept any liability, so it went to a civil jury trial.”
I perked up. “What happened?”
“The court agreed with Virgil. It cost Strothers a ton of money, especially when he was found liable for breach of contract, among other things. One thing that didn’t help Strothers in the trial was his temper. He actually threatened Virgil during the trial a couple times. No surprise that he lost his case.”
“If he’d threaten me for an imagined act, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d like to kill Virgil.” A shiver went through my body and I dropped my head into my hands.
“I thought you’d be thrilled to hear that news.” Anna sounded hurt.
“I am, Anna, but I heard something today that’s got me . . . upset.” I told her about Jack’s relationship to Eric.
“What can I say? I’m as stunned as you. That’s not good news.” We were both silent for a while. A customer entered the store and I stood to go. “Watch who you talk to, Cassandra,” she said, pecking me on the cheek.
Although Anna’s information was intriguing, Shaw’s had trumped it. I steeled myself not to over-react. Jack might not have told me about his knowing Eric, because he was embarrassed about it. He’d spent so much time cultivating his carefree-cowboy image, he didn’t want to wreck it. But no matter how hard I tried to keep from making a molehill into a mountain, a little voice kept telling me, “you’re a fool.” What else had Jack lied to me about?
To help settle my mind, I found the books Anna had loaned me on frontier clothing. I pulled out the enlargement I’d made of the parking lot stranger’s boots from my digital camera and compared them to photos of boots in all the books. No match. I remembered someone at the Rendezvous meeting saying that many pieces of clothing were custom made. If that were the case with the boots, how could I find out who may have made them? Marty came to mind, but he was the last person I’d ask for help.
Maybe Willis would know. I reached him on his cell phone and told him I needed information about how to find a custom boot maker. “It’s about the photo I showed you at the supper club.”
“I’ll get a name and call you back,” he said.
I’d no more than ended my call to Willis than my cell phone chirped. The number on the caller ID was unfamiliar. “Cassandra Cassidy,” I said.
“This is Nick Parker. I’ve been wondering how you’re doing after the incident Monday evening at the bar.”
My heartbeat fluttered. “I’m okay,” I said, reaching up to smooth my hair. “Thanks for your help.”
“All in a day’s work. Anna told me a little about your conflict with Guy Strothers. I don’t know him personally, but I know him by reputation. Would it be too upsetting to talk about it?”
“No, I guess not.”
“How about in a couple hours? I’d like to bring supper, if you’re going to be home.”
Supper. I had no food in the house and I was ravenous. “Sounds good.”
“Great. Pizza and beer?”
“The idea of more beer gives me a headache,” I laughed. “Make it pizza and Coke and it’s a deal. Pepperoni.”
“Pepperoni pizza and Coke it is. I’ll see you at your place about 6:15.”
Well. I had just agreed to a date. Or had I? Maybe Nick only wanted to tell me what he knew about Strothers. He could have told Anna, who could have told me, but . . . whatever. I could use a male presence in my life more intriguing than Willis, Marty, and Jack. At least for one evening, if nothing more. I went upstairs to shower and change my clothes.
Nick arrived on tim
e. “Whew,” he said, “I followed Anna’s directions. You are certainly out here all by yourself.”
“That’s the truth,” I said, taking the pizza box from him and lifting the lid. “Mmm, smells good enough to eat!”
“Sausage and green pepper,” he said. “They were out of pepperoni and that’s about as adventurous the pizza cuisine is in Colton Mills. Hope it’s okay.”
“It’s perfect,” I said, heading for the kitchen. “C’mon in and follow me.”
I had already completed a furtive examination of my dinner guest. In the dim light of the Roadhouse, I hadn’t notice a scar that ran from Nick’s left eyebrow to the middle of his cheekbone. It gave him a rugged look. He was taller than I was by a few inches. And slim. His marine blue eyes danced beneath dark eyebrows, and they exactly matched the blue stripes of his short-sleeved shirt. I also noticed his well-developed biceps. He didn’t get those by playing the guitar, I decided. His hair had been unsuccessfully tamed with a hair product. Wiry curls flopped around his ears.
Nick moved confidently to the kitchen and deposited the six-pack of Coke on the table. I had set the table ahead of time . . . if you call dropping a couple of forks, plates, and napkins in the middle of the table setting it. I’d decided against music, as it seemed too date-like. I still wasn’t sure how to interpret his visit. I produced a platter for the pizza and added ice to the glasses. “Take a seat,” I said. “I’m eager to stem my appetite.”
We made small talk while we devoured the pizza. Where we came from. How we landed in Colton Mills. He, from a small dairy farm in Minnesota. Married young. Divorced young. No kids. Wife ran off with a man she met at McDonald’s. Learned guitar and singing in church. Studied journalism at the university, worked on a newspaper in northern Minnesota, settled in Colton Mills after realizing he didn’t like the city. Wrote an article on EMTs. Fascinated him. Pushing forty and wanted something new. As he talked, he moved his hand in the air, as if he had once smoked cigarettes and all that was left was the gesture. He grinned openly and often.
Before I knew what I was doing, I’d told him about my experience being married to a musician and described how I had gotten to Colton Mills. Flustered that I’d revealed so much about myself, I switched subjects. “Tell me what you know about Strothers.” I busied myself taking plates to the sink.
He grinned at me sheepishly, peering down at his hands, then back up at me. “To tell you the truth, I used that as an opening to come and see you. I don’t know anything about the guy.”
I gasped aloud and placed my hands on my hips. “You can’t trust anybody these days!” I said, teasing and feeling my face flushing. So it was a date.
At that very moment, the phone on his belt played the beginning of some unrecognizable song. He quickly took the call, spoke only a few words, and rose from the table. “The unpredictable world of an EMT,” he said, pushing his chair under the table and turning to face me. He smiled crookedly. “It’s an emergency. I have to go.”
I walked him to the door. He took my hand and kissed me on the cheek. “I want to see you again.” Already on his way down the stairs to the outside door, he turned to offer a little wave. That was that. I put my hand on my cheek, and, humming a little tune, went to finish cleaning up the kitchen.
Chapter 23
Thursday—Week Three
After a night of tossing and turning, I vowed to become more serious about clearing my name. I wanted my life back. There was no sense in even feigning an interest in guys like Nick, if Deputy Shaw were to decide to arrest me. I did not want to spend even a minute behind bars, and I certainly didn’t want guys visiting me in jail.
I returned to my computer with renewed energy and again faced the grainy digital photo with the shadowy figure of a man in the corner. Who else could help me identify him? I’d asked almost everyone but Marty. I’d be taking a chance, if the man in the photo turned out to be Marty. I’d be tipping him off to the existence of the photo, and then I’d have no place to hide. But, at this point, I was willing to take the chance. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I enlarged the entire photo, then isolated separate portions of it and enlarged them, too. When I had finished, I had filled several folders with about a dozen exposures each. With strength of purpose, I headed over to Marty’s with my briefcase by 11:10. He was in his backyard, as usual. I told him what I had and presented one of the folders to him. “Think you can shed any light on the person in this photo?” I pointed to the image.
Marty leafed through the pictures, taking his time with each one, turning them in different directions to catch the light. “I’m going inside to get a magnifying glass.” He tromped off to the house. When he returned, he said, “The outfit is curious, Cassandra. The man is wearing unusually warm clothing for such a hot day. That’s not in keeping with the Rendezvous.”
“But, do you recognize who it is?”
“There’s something familiar about the figure.” He squinted. “I can’t quite put my finger on it. If I could get a copy of the photos, I could study them later.”
“Go ahead and take the folder, Marty,” I said. “I have the photos in my computer and can print as many as I need.”
He gathered the pictures up and slipped them under his arm. “Have you shown these to Shaw?”
“He doesn’t know about them,” I said. I explained how I had taken it with my digital camera, removed the card and stuffed it into my jeans pocket. “I completely forgot about it, until it fell out while I was doing my wash. When I—”
“Have you had lunch yet? I made some sandwiches and a salad and I’d just as soon not eat alone.”
“Sure.” I glanced at my watch. “Sounds better than the microwave dinner I was planning.”
Plus, I’d finally get inside Marty’s house!
We walked through an entranceway tacked onto the kitchen, typical of centuries-old houses. Coats, caps, and other kinds of men’s outdoor clothing hung from pegs framed by dark wainscoting. Boots and shoes peeked out from under the coats. When we continued through a door at the end of the passageway, an old-fashioned screen door sprang shut behind us. We emerged into a dimly lighted kitchen. I noticed that Marty still had the room-darkening shades pulled down to cover the two windows that looked over the back yard. He switched on a light. White floor-to-ceiling wood cabinets flanked one entire side of the kitchen. Another wall had been retrofitted with twentieth century appliances—a gas stove, refrigerator, and sink. The faded blue-flowered linoleum still bore the outline of appliances that had formerly stood there.
The scant counter space that divided the upper and lower cabinets was cluttered with an ancient bread box, a can of Maxwell House coffee, a pile of magazines and newspapers, and what looked like a day or two’s mail. When I pulled out a chair to sit at the weathered wooden table, an orange tabby cat jumped down to the floor. It rubbed against Marty’s legs as he puttered at the table, moving salt and peppershakers, napkin holders, and various condiments to one side to make room for the salads and sandwiches. He had apparently been reading a military magazine, which he picked up and added to the pile of papers on the counter.
I’d been in rooms like this before, but this one was populated by a bachelor who cared nothing for decorating and updating. I peered around for anything personal. No magnetized photos of smiling grandchildren adorned the fridge. Aside from the counter clutter, the room was a study in minimalism. A door led to the next room, but with the draperies in that room pulled together, it was dark, too. If I’d been bolder, I would have visited the bathroom as a maneuver to see more of the house.
Marty and I made small talk about the weather. He busied himself setting the table and putting out the food. “Up for a beer?” He held out a can to me. “Nothing beats the heat better than a cold one.” I opened the tab. He opened his and sat across from me. The weather seemed to be the only topic we could talk about. We kept discussing it. “The weather in Kansas City was even hotter than it is here, if you can believe that,” he
said, taking a bite of his sandwich.
I didn’t let on I knew he had been in Kansas. “Oh, so that’s where you were when the sheriff called you to come back home.”
He cleared his throat. “I had some engine trouble with the helicopter and it was in the shop when the sheriff called. I had to wait overnight to get airborne.”
“Were you in Kansas for business or pleasure?”
He took a sip of his beer and settled back in his chair, as if to ignore my question. “A little of both.”
“I heard an accident victim was transported to a burn unit in Kansas City,” I said, prompting him to continue his story.
“That’s right,” he said. “My schedule was open, and I was ready to get out of town for awhile.” He took another sip of beer and another bite of his sandwich. “And besides that, I had some personal business. I’ve been trying to solve a puzzle for forty years.” He carefully placed his half-eaten sandwich on the salad plate. “I’ve been chasing around the country following up whatever clue came my way. Sometimes, even out of the country. Mexico. Canada. Ireland, of all places. But after a couple of years, the trail got cold and I’d be lucky to get a lead a year.”
“What are you looking for?” I asked, taking another bite out of the surprisingly good tuna sandwich.
He examined the ceiling, his eyes focused on a distant point. Finally he said, “I don’t know much about you, Cassandra. Let me ask you a question, though. If your mother disappeared with your brother and you had no idea where they were or why they left, what would you do?”
If I had seen the dreaded “family” question coming, I could have deflected it. As it was, he had taken me by surprise and his question had the effect of a blow to the stomach. I struggled to keep from spitting out my sandwich.
A Rendezvous to Die For Page 18
