Chapter 25
Monday—Week Four
Anna, the consummate Sherlock, had gotten into the spirit of tracking down the beadwork artist. Things were moving along, according to her latest message on my answering machine. “Just to give you an update on the boots, Cassandra. Hugo called and said he’s narrowed the beadwork style down to two moccasin makers. One of them lives out East, not too far from him. He sent him the picture to see if it’s his work, but he hasn’t heard back from him yet. The other one is hard to reach. Evidently a free spirit who travels the reenactor circuit all year long. Hugo’s checking to see if the guy has an email or any other way of reaching him. I’ll keep you posted.”
Nick had called me late Friday and I agreed to meet him for a Saturday-night dinner and a movie. God! We were even dating small-town style. Sometimes I felt as if I were in a time warp.
Other than that quite pleasant break in my usual routine, the weekend passed with no progress on clearing my name. I didn’t want to dwell on the fact that three entire weeks had passed with no progress on naming the killer of Eric.
On Monday morning, I was driving to my first appointment when my cell phone rang. It was my newest bridal client, Stacy.
“Cassandra,” she said, “I’m running a little late. Would you be too upset if I met you at 9:30 instead of 9:00, same place?”
“No problem,” I said, “see you there.” With an extra half hour freed up on my schedule, I drove to the library. Janine was working. “Long, hot summer we’re having, isn’t it?” I groaned inwardly at my lame attempt at normalcy.
“I’ll say,” she said. “Especially hot for you, though, isn’t it? How are you doing?”
“I’m doing one day at a time. Thanks for asking. Listen, do you have old Colton Mills telephone books . . . say a year old?”
“We sure do. C’mon and I’ll show you where to find them.” She led me to an area along the back wall. “Look through them to your heart’s content, but you’ll have to leave them in the library. They can’t be checked out.”
I thanked her and pulled the regional directory that contained Colton Mills off the shelf. I opened the book to the D’s, and traced the names down to Dewitt. Kathleen’s name was there and it matched the address on Eighth Street where K. Dewitt was currently listed. I still wasn’t sure what significance to attach to the name and address match. Whoever was living there now may not have gotten around to changing the name on the mailbox. But if that were the case, why was the apartment still in Kathleen’s name in the phone book? And why was music playing in the apartment late at night only on a rare occasion?
I returned to the counter. “Janine, do you remember a car crash last year? The one that killed a girl named Kathleen Dewitt?”
She tilted her head to one side and stared across the room. “Hmm . . . do you know when it happened, Cassandra?”
“The beginning of the year, I think. Maybe January or February.”
She pursed her lips. “That’s more than a year ago. A lot of news has pushed that one out of my mind. You know, winter car accidents in Minnesota aren’t exactly earth-shattering news. I don’t remember her name, but I’ll tell you where to look, if you’re interested.”
I checked my watch. “I have about fifteen minutes.”
“Okay, follow me.” She led me to the computer room and pulled a couple of compact discs out of a cabinet. After delivering instructions, she left me to my own devices.
The first disc held local newspaper stories for January/February of the previous year. I clicked through the disc’s directory searching for anything that said Kathleen Dewitt. Nothing. I tried accident and was rewarded with about ten hits. But they weren’t what I needed. Maybe crash. I entered the word and again received several hits. Scrolling down, I found the headline: “Young Woman Dies in County Crossroads Crash.” Quickly opening the article, I scanned it until I found the name of the victim. It was Kathleen DeWitt! I pushed print, snatched the article off the printer, folded it, and stuffed it into my back pocket. Tossing a dollar bill at Janine for the copy, I dashed to my Jeep and headed for my meeting with Stacy. I was late.
Driving through town a couple hours later, I thought about Kathleen’s apartment and wondered what was behind her name still being on the mailbox. It probably wasn’t important, but the diversion kept me from obsessing over my own worsening situation. Like the fact that I hadn’t heard from Willis yet. Surely he’d been given plenty of time to look into the boots matter and the photo riddle. I reached for my cell phone and dialed the number he had given to me. I was also eager to find out if he’d learned anything that would help Marty, as the representative for the Rendezvous group.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Cassandra, “ he said, when I reached him, “but I have not found any useful information about those moccasin boots yet.”
“That’s all right. I’m sure you’re a busy man. But Willis, while I have you on the phone, can you remember if you got to the Rendezvous before Marty that Saturday morning?”
“I believe that Marty camped out on the grounds overnight, so, no, I did not get there before him.” Willis paused, as though thinking. “I did arrive quite early, however, as I followed that young man from the stables to the site and he left shortly after dawn.”
“What guy from the stables?” I could hear my voice rise with dread and I turned down the sound on the car radio.
“You know, dear . . . the trainer there. Jack.” He paused. “I don’t know his last name.”
“Gardner. Jack was at the Rendezvous?”
“He had to trailer a couple horses for two of the participants. I didn’t know the way, and he said I could follow him.”
I gulped a lungful of air and counted to ten to steady my voice. “Any idea how long Jack stayed?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t, Cassandra. I didn’t even talk to him, as I had other things to do. He went one way, and I went the other after we arrived.”
I thought I had been surprised when I learned Jack knew Eric. Now, he was at the Rendezvous? And with all our conversations about Eric, he never thought it pertinent to share that information with me? I had told Jack almost everything about my situation. He had looked through my photos. What if it weren’t to help me, as much as to learn if I had a picture of him?
The fact that Jack didn’t tell me about Eric or the Rendezvous could only mean one thing—he had something to hide. He had been helping me keep abreast of what I knew. With that thought, I smacked the steering wheel with my hand. Why had it taken so long for this piece of the puzzle to fall into place? Jack had not only set up my appointment with Randy the night I found him dead with a knife in his back, but Jack was with me when we found Jim. He had protested against our taking that trail through the woods. Quite pointedly.
Lost in my depressing thoughts, I nearly back-ended the car in front of me, which had slowed to let someone dash through a crosswalk. I slammed on my brakes and felt my heart lurch into my throat. The near accident completely snatched my breath away and I pulled over to the curb to settle down. My mind was whirling with so many thoughts, nothing was making sense. Clear thinking was necessary. My life could depend on it, especially if Jack was a murderer.
Finally, I felt I had control of myself enough to resume driving back to the carriage house. I resisted the impulse to call Jack and scream bloody murder at him. One, it would be blatantly stupid. If Jack had killed any or all three of the men, he would do the same to me if I were no longer useful to him. Two, as long as he didn’t know what I had learned, and if I were careful, I could use him at the same time he was using me. I had to take everything Jack had told me with a grain of salt. What could I believe? Had Eric really instigated a blackmail campaign against Strothers? Maybe Jack had made it up to throw suspicion on Strothers and away from himself. What had he told me about Marty? Oh, yes . . . he set me up to talk to Randy Pearce about Marty’s violent behavior. Maybe he had coached Randy in advance so that I would believe Marty had a motive for k
illing him. I would have to tread very, very carefully where Jack Gardner was concerned.
Thinking about Jack made me think about Midnight and, unbidden, my mind returned to the Kathleen DeWitt mystery. I needed to get into what I was sure was her apartment. Maybe I could learn how to find her father and offer to buy her horse. The second my mind headed in that direction, I thought I knew how to pull it off. When I had driven through the alley the week before, I’d noticed a shallow faux balcony with a scrolled wrought-iron railing on the back of the building, just outside what must a bedroom window. At one time, the window had overlooked a substantial garden between the building and the alley. All that was left now were some overgrown foundation plantings centered on a full-grown tree that brushed against the building. I could climb the tree and enter the apartment through the second-floor window. There should be just enough room on the platform separating the building from the railing of the ornamental balcony.
I glanced at the dashboard clock and, although I was mentally weary, I determined now was the best time to tackle the break-in. I wouldn’t be able to sleep with so many questions on my mind. Although I had time to drive all the way out to the Carriage House and back to town, I wasn’t up for it. Fortunately, I was dressed in what I figured would be fairly decent tree-climbing clothes—Levi’s, a long-sleeved red-plaid shirt, and my best pair of Land’s End hiking boots. If my memory served me correctly, I had some old leather gloves in the truck, for tire-changing purposes. I also had a tire iron and a crowbar and a few other tools for emergencies on my photo shoots. My weight-lifting regimen would serve me in good stead to boost myself into the tree. The climb itself should be fairly easy. Once I had talked myself into the scheme, I felt more energized.
First, however, I had to get something to eat. My unexpected trip to the library, the meeting with Stacy, and my phone call with Willis had taken any thought of lunch away from me and my backbone was playing a version of Dry Bones on my stomach organ. I’d have to kill enough time to ensure it was dark and perfect my plan. Deputy Shaw would rub his hands together in glee, if I were brought in for one more questionable shenanigan.
I wasn’t ready to discuss any of my new revelations with even Anna and I didn’t want to run into anyone I knew, so I chose a neighborhood café that served Scandinavian-style cooking, instead of one of my usual haunts. While I dined on Swedish meatballs over egg noodles and a generous slice of cranberry-apple pie in total anonymity, I plotted exactly how I would proceed, once I had parked near Eighth Street. Getting through the window posed a problem, since I’d never broken into a building before. If I remembered correctly, it was a hinged window, opening onto the faux balcony, which was about ten-fifteen feet off the ground. As long as the window had not been updated with new safety glass and fasteners, I was counting on the crowbar to get me inside. Alarm systems were few and far between in Colton Mills, so I was confident I wouldn’t face that challenge.
I spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening accomplishing several errands, spending over an hour in the photo shop buying the chemicals and paper I needed to replenish my darkroom supplies.
The sun had barely set when I parked on a dark side street two blocks away from Kathleen’s building. Feeling slightly queasy, I remained in the car for several minutes while considering again what I was about to do. I would be hit with some serious criminal charges, if anyone caught me. Notwithstanding that possibility, my curiosity overcame my misgivings, and I gathered my gloves and tools and began the short walk to the apartment house. Not a leaf stirred on any tree. The sky was moonless and clouds covered most of the stars. Every footstep echoed in my ears as I picked my way carefully through the uneven gravel alley.
Right when I thought I should turn back, the building loomed in front of me. I peered through the darkness to identify the tree and to search for signs of the faux balcony outside my target window. It would take me only a few more steps to reach it. In five minutes, I could be up on the balcony ledge. I stood as still as a statue and pondered the right thing to do. It was now or never.
Listening for the sounds of anyone in the area, I finally felt comfortable that I was alone. I reached up and grabbed hold of the lowest-hanging branch. After a couple of tries, I succeeded in pulling myself up over the branch, until I was standing on it. Then reaching for the next branch, I hoisted myself even higher. I was decidedly rusty at tree climbing, especially in the dark, but I eventually managed to climb until I was within a couple feet of the ornamental balcony. Carefully, I stretched out my arm, until my hand touched the top of the railing. Grasping it tightly and then letting loose my grip on the tree branch above me, I took hold of the railing with my left hand and pulled myself over the edge and onto the narrow balcony. It was covered with months of accumulated dirt and leaves. I silently instructed myself to dispose of my footwear as soon I left the premises, in case the boots left imprints.
Moving quietly toward the window, I pushed my face against it to see if I could detect any signs of light. I couldn’t see a thing. Probably shades or heavy draperies covered the window. I placed my ear against the pane and listened. No noise came from inside the room.
I felt up and down the window casing to find the latch that held the two windows together. I slipped the crowbar between them in what I figured was an adequate breaking-and-entering procedure. After a few tries, the old wood splintered and I had access to the latch. I set the crowbar on the windowsill, reached inside and pushed open the window wide enough to wriggle through the space. I parted the draperies, peeked inside the cave-dark room, and stepped inside.
The air smelled stale, like no one had refreshed it in months. Maybe my hunch was right and I was standing in Kathleen’s apartment. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I defined the shapes of furniture in what I assumed was a bedroom. I pulled out my keychain and shined my small laser light on the bed and dresser, to see if there were signs of occupancy. Everything was well organized and neat, but every piece of furniture was covered with a thin layer of dust. Nothing in the wastebasket. Step by step, I inched my way through the room, into the hallway, and toward the kitchen. The countertops were devoid of any signs of fresh food. Their surfaces were also covered with a layer of dust. I pulled open the refrigerator door. A welcoming light illuminated the room. No food, but several bottles of white wine rested on their sides, chilling. How long had they been there? Was Kathleen the drinker, or someone else? The freezer was empty and the icemaker was turned to off.
I returned to the hallway and entered the windowless bathroom. Closing the door, I switched on the light. A bar of soap and a hand towel rested on the porcelain sink. I couldn’t tell when they had last been used. The soap was dry and the sink was clean. The shower floor was dusty. I opened the top drawer of the vanity. It was filled with typical women’s toiletries, including eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick. The next drawer held bottles of hairspray, hair gel, shampoo, brushes, barrettes, and assorted hair ornaments. I felt like the intruder I was.
Back in the hallway, I wandered into a second bedroom. I shined the laser light around the room and quickly identified it as Kathleen’s bedroom. The cast-iron bed was made up with a decidedly feminine spread, accented with colorful red and pink flowers and a ruffled binding. A stuffed white bear and brown horse rested against the foot of the bedstead. A collection of horse statues, along with some photos of a woman on a saddled black horse filled one shelf. An easy chair filled one corner, with a low bow-legged table next to it. A stereo took up half the table and the rest was covered with a half-dozen or so framed pictures of a girl at various ages. In front of the pictures were two wine glasses and a candle. The setup looked like a shrine.
I assumed the pictures were of Kathleen. I’d be able to tell for sure when I saw Kathleen’s picture at Shannon’s wedding. Just to make sure I wouldn’t forget the face, I selected the smallest photo and slipped it into my shirt pocket. As long as I’d embarked on the slippery slope to criminality, I might as well add burglary to breaking a
nd entering.
Just as that flippant thought passed through my mind, a click in the hall made my blood run cold. Someone had inserted a key into the apartment door lock. I stood ramrod still and listened, quickly snapping off my keychain light. A door opened. Someone entered the living room. Lamplight in the living room made a thin illuminated ribbon down the hallway floor. My knees grew weak and I feared I would fall to the floor. My clammy hands started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes stayed riveted on the stream of light. What should I do? Where should I go? Will I be caught?
Heavy footsteps headed for the kitchen. The footsteps of a man. Feeling desperate and in fear of my life, I searched with my eyes for a place to hide, afraid to move even an eyelash. Tiptoeing one careful step at a time, I headed for the closet door. Turning the knob with a sweaty hand, I opened the door far enough to slip inside, shutting the door completely behind me. Feeling about and praying nothing would fall to the floor, I settled behind the densely packed clothes and tried to still my pounding heart.
I couldn’t hear a thing, but my imagination went wild. The man was probably opening the refrigerator and removing a bottle of wine. He’d open the bottle and head for the shrine to Kathleen. He’d be right outside my hiding place. What’s that? Footsteps. He was passing the closet door. A cough. A sigh. More footsteps heading straight toward the easy chair. I fought my sudden dizziness and tried to quietly suck in a deep breath. This was no time to faint.
Abruptly, a thin line of light appeared almost beneath my feet. The door ended about a half-inch above the floor. Could he hear me breathing? I could hear his wine being poured into the glass. And what was that? Music. Classical music coming from the stereo. Debussy’s Claire de Lune.
More footsteps. What was he doing? Where was he going? A door opened and then closed. He was in the bathroom! This was my time to move. I twisted the knob and slowly opened the closet door, pausing to listen for any activity in the bathroom. Over the sound of the toilet flushing, I crept out of hiding and dashed down the hallway toward the other bedroom and my escape window. Then, without warning, I tripped and fell.
A Rendezvous to Die For Page 20
