A Rendezvous to Die For

by Betty McMahon

  “Who’s there!”

  The man’s voice sounded alarmed. He was in the hallway. Numb with fright, I froze. I can’t be found. I’ll spend the rest of the night behind bars. Maybe the rest of my life. I scrambled to my feet and bolted for the window, as the man’s footsteps raced down the hallway and into the living room. I fumbled with the heavy draperies, trying to find where they parted. There. Good girl. Stay calm. I crawled through the window and onto the narrow fake balcony. With only one foot touching freedom, I felt the viselike grip of a man’s hand on my arm. My heart stopped. My breathing stopped. It’s over.

  No. The crowbar. I reached for it with my free hand and jammed the sharp end into the man’s arm. Cursing, he let go just long enough for me to vault the balcony railing. I dropped two stories to the ground below and landed with a thud in an overgrown lilac bush. A pain seared my left ankle. Other than that, I seemed to be in one piece. I threw one hasty glance at the window above me. My assailant hadn’t attempted to follow me. He was either on his way down the stairs to come after me or on the phone to alert the police. I wrestled my way out of the bush and hobbled as fast as I could through the dark alley.

  As I reached the end of the alleyway and was about to turn toward the safety of the side street where I’d parked, I saw the lights of a vehicle enter the other end and stop under the balcony. I loped to my Jeep and within mere seconds was entering Main Street. Only then did I dare to switch on the headlights.

  Chapter 26

  Tuesday—Week Four

  My first thoughts upon waking were, “No one followed me. No police cars pulled me over. I’m in my own bed. I’m not behind bars.” I lay perfectly still and reviewed the most dim-witted thing I had ever done. What had I accomplished? Absolutely nothing. I had learned that apparently a grieving father had left his daughter’s apartment as she had lived in it . . . sort of a living shrine to her where he could toast her with a glass of wine and think of the good times they’d enjoyed together and of the events they’d never share, like her wedding and her children—his never to love grandchildren.

  Finally rising from the safety of my bed, I practically tripped over the heavy black trash bag filled with my get-away wardrobe. I had emptied my pockets into my catchall basket on the counter as soon as I’d entered the carriage house apartment, and then peeled off my clothes and stuffed them into the bag. I planned to burn them, so there would be nothing to tie me to the apartment break-in. A long shower had calmed my nerves. I had wrapped my banged-up ankle in cold packs, treated the cuts from landing in the bush, and crept into my bed, trying to erase the image of being one crowbar jab away from time in the slammer.

  Barely dressed, I heard my cell phone ringing and momentarily stiffened. I limped to the dresser to retrieve the phone and examine the LCD display screen. Anna’s name and number appeared. “Morning, friend. What’s up?” I said, sounding overly chipper to hide my guilt.

  “Back atcha,” she said. “We’ve hit a small glitch, Cassandra. The first craftsman I called says the beadwork on the boots is similar to his, but it’s not his work. He’s pretty sure the other guy did the beadwork, but he doesn’t know how to reach him. If anyone can track him down, I know Hugo can do it.”

  I made small talk with Anna as best I could. My adrenalin was still too elevated from the night before to think clearly. “Thanks for your persistence. I appreciate it and will practice as much patience as I can, until you hear from him.”

  The cold packs, refreshed once during the night, had worked their magic on my ankle. I had very little to no swelling. I’d have to favor it for a few days, but wouldn’t need medical intervention. I gathered a few newspapers and carried them with the trash bag of evidence to the burn barrel. In a few minutes, any evidence had gone up in flames. Then I spent the next ten minutes hosing down my Jeep, to erase any signs of alley dust. I felt home free from my near debacle of establishing a criminal record. I decided to keep the apartment escapade to myself. As long as no one else knew about it, there was little chance of it coming to light.

  I spent most of the morning in my darkroom and at my computer pouring over the Rendezvous and wedding pictures, in order to put the least amount of stress on my ankle. When the phone rang again, I jumped involuntarily. No amount of fooling myself removed the fear lurking mere millimeters beneath the surface of my bravado. It was Deputy Shaw’s assistant.

  “Deputy Shaw would like to see you in his office at two o’clock this afternoon,” she said curtly. “He wants you to bring a red shirt with you . . . like the ones you regularly wear.”

  “Do you know what this is about?” I asked, my chest tightening.

  “No, I don’t. Just bring the shirt and be here by two o’clock.”

  My throat went dry. Shaw had put two and two together. He knew I was at the farmhouse the night I photographed Strothers’ vehicle door. Strothers must have filed a complaint after all. “I’ll be there,” I croaked. How would Shaw use the information? On the face of it, it didn’t seem like a chargeable offense. I hadn’t damaged anything. I hadn’t hurt anyone. Maybe it was another fishing expedition. Maybe it was another building block in his case against me. I needed to talk to Sanders about it. Immediately.

  Thirty minutes later, I was sitting across from him in his office. It wasn’t easy for me to spill the whole story to my attorney, especially since he was Anna’s brother. I had to go back to square one and tell him about Jack breaking into Strothers’ office and finding information that suggested Eric was blackmailing Strothers. After what I had learned about Jack, I no longer felt the need to protect him. “We decided, after finding out about the blackmail payments and reviewing the articles proving a change Eric’s attitude, that Strothers had a serious motive for killing Eric.” Then I related how he had accosted me outside Grizzly’s and accused me of telling Marty about the paint factory.

  “All that occurred right after someone tried to run me off the road on the rainy day of Randy’s funeral. I wanted to find out if Strothers was the one who wanted me in the ditch . . . or worse,” I said, defensively. “When Anna and I saw his vehicle pass us, we followed him all the way to that farm somewhere in Timbuktu. Anna thought it was too dangerous to go any further and we left. But you know me. I couldn’t leave well enough alone. I returned on my own after dark with my camera. I photographed the passenger side door. First, I used my red shirt to wipe it clean of dust, and then stupidly tossed it onto the ground to free up both hands. Then, being the klutz I am, I fell over in the driveway. I made just enough noise to alert the men in the house. Strothers came running outside and almost spotted me. Fortunately, some kid in the area shot off a few fireworks and that diverted their attention. I hitched a ride on the back of Strothers’ truck until we were out of the range of the yard light. Unfortunately, I left the shirt behind in the driveway.”

  Sanders had taken extensive notes. “After all that, did you find anything incriminating in the photos?” He gave me a hopeful look, while chewing on the pen.

  I iterated how I had connected the dots, from identifying the logo on Strothers’ vehicle to a on a truck parked in the Rendezvous parking lot. “It proved the truck was in the Rendezvous parking lot the day Eric was killed, Lawton. Because of that, I felt the farmhouse’s escapade was worth it.”

  Sanders was silent for several seconds. He raised a bushy eyebrow and rocked in his high-backed office chair. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you, Cassandra? A little unorthodox, but you’ve turned up some interesting tidbits of information.”

  “What kind of trouble am I in with Shaw?” I slumped in my chair and hid my face in a propped up hand, too worried to watch his reaction.

  “No criminal charges that I can ascertain,” Sanders said. “Possibly a trespassing charge, but that’s nothing to worry about. I imagine Shaw is quite mystified as to why you were at the farmhouse, but, in reality, he has no proof you were there. Only Strothers’ say-so. It all depends upon what line Strothers fed him when handing over your shirt. He p
robably suspects it has something to do with his investigations of the three murders, and he’ll try to get it out of you. I’d expect a serious grilling, but we can handle that. And, although this isn’t really legal advice . . . I’d try to find a red shirt that is either much too big or too small for you. One you haven’t worn in quite a long time perhaps. And with a different label, of course, so that it is totally unlike the one in Shaw’s possession.”

  The chirping of my cell phone jolted me out of my reverie as I drove back home, following my appointment with Sanders. I was stewing over my guilt for not telling him about my real break-in adventure the night before. It was Jack, not exactly the person I wanted to have a conversation with. ”Hello, Jack. What’s up?”

  “Cass, we’re trying to find Virgil and I’m looking for information.” He sounded breathless, his voice coming in small bursts. “Is there anything you can think of that will help us? Anything at all?”

  “Why the urgency in finding Virgil?”

  “Guy Strothers was out at the stables again, asking questions. He talked to one of the employees here who blabbed everything he knew about Virgil. I’m concerned he’ll do something to him. He seems to really have it in for the guy. We’ve gotta find him and warn him of trouble.”

  Warning bells went off. Could I trust Jack? Was he stringing me along with another set-up scheme? If he were telling the truth and Virgil were in some sort of danger from an enraged Strothers, would my guilt be magnified if I ignored his safety for my own? “Okay, Jack . . . I guess I can give you a little info, but I’m not sure it’ll help much. I know where Virgil’s daughter lived, before she was killed.”

  “Kathleen’s been dead for more than a year, Cass.”

  “I know, but I happen to know that her apartment has been rented by her father all this time.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Don’t ask me how, Jack. I just know it.” I gave him the apartment address.

  “I’ll call Steve, a guy I ride with in the Mounted Patrol. He’s working as a part-time deputy and owes me a favor.” Thankfully Jack hung up and didn’t quiz me about my recent activities.

  As soon as I entered my kitchen, upon reaching home, I saw that the landline phone was blinking. Someone had left another message. I was from Anna. I dialed her right away.

  “Cassandra, we’ve found the guy!” she said, as soon as we had connected.

  “I needed some good news,” I said wearily. “I had a session with your brother this morning and I have another interrogation by Deputy Shaw this afternoon. Tell me about the moccasin maker.”

  “He’s an Ojibwe Indian,” she said. “He grew up on the rez and goes by the name Standing Heart. When I called him, he was packing up to attend a Rendezvous near Pipestone.”

  “But Frank Kyopa told me the boots were not made by anyone from the reservation.”

  “Frank or no Frank, we’ve got our man,” Anna said firmly. “I think I’ll drive down there and meet him face to face. Hopefully, he can tell who purchased the boots from him. Any chance you can come along?”

  “I can’t. I’ve got a couple appointments set in stone. Are you sure you want to do this? It could turn out to be a wild goose chase.”

  “I’m going to go, no matter what. I’ve wanted to see some clothing samples from a seamstress who lives near there anyway. I’ll kill two birds with one stone. I’ll take the pictures you gave me to confirm the boots. You take care, dear, and I’ll call you as soon as I get any information.”

  Later, driving through town on my way to the police station, I passed Kathleen’s apartment house. In front of the building, I wasn’t surprised to see a posted sign: Apartment for Rent. I memorized the telephone number, drove around the corner, and pulled over to the curb. I punched the number into my cell phone. “Eighth Street Apartments, this is Myrtle speaking.”

  “Could you tell me which apartment is for rent in your building, please?”

  “Certainly. It’s number 206. A lovely apartment. Very clean. Two bedrooms. Are you interested in seeing it?”

  “When will it be available?”

  “In two weeks.”

  “Thanks for the information. I’ll call you back.” I sat for some time, simply staring out the windshield. Obviously, Kathleen’s father was taking the next step in his life. I felt guilty for my part in pushing him into making the decision to move on. I had invaded his privacy. It was probably for the best, though.

  Lawton Sanders met me at the entrance to the police station. “Follow my lead, Cassandra,” he said. “As much as possible, limit your answers to yes or no. No details. Remember, he has no proof you were even on the farmhouse property. Let’s play it by ear.”

  Fortunately, Sanders advice served me well. I was so noncommittal about every reply to every question that Shaw gave up. I was back in my Jeep with forty-five minutes, no worse for wear.

  Jack heard from Steve later in the afternoon and called me back. “Your information might have helped,” he told me. “Steve was in town, so he stopped by the apartment building. Talked to a Myrtle there.”

  “Yes, Myrtle’s the manager.”

  “She said Virgil always came by about the same time every month and paid the apartment rent in cash. She never knew where he lived.”

  “Great. Sounds like another dead end.”

  “He did get a little snippet of information though.” Jack cleared his throat. “Myrtle said whenever he was there, she sometimes noticed a vehicle with an out-of-state license number on it parked at the curb. She asked someone in the office about it and that person said she thought it was a Wisconsin plate.”

  “Kathleen’s friend told me Mr. DeWitt lived in Wisconsin, so that would make perfect sense. It would explain why we don’t ever see him around town. He must drive here from Madison, pay the rent and the board for Kathleen’s horse Midnight, and then drive back home. It doesn’t, however, explain his secrecy . . . unless he’s trying to stay away from Strothers. I think I told you about the lawsuit over a property dispute. Strothers lost a ton of money and has felt a great animosity toward Virgil ever since.”

  My fears for Virgil outweighed my reluctance to spend any more time with Jack. I’d stay alert and keep my mouth shut concerning anything about my own investigations. “I think we should go to Ned Oberon’s farm and ask him where Strothers is,” I said. “If he finds Virgil first, God only knows what he’ll do to him. I’d never forgive myself, if I could have helped him. The poor man is still grieving the loss of his only child.”

  “I’ll finish my chores with the horses and pick you up.”

  On the way to Oberon’s farm, we strategized as to how we should approach Ned. “Let’s hope he’s not armed,” Jack said, accelerating to a scary seventy-five mph. I tried to ignore the speedometer by peering blankly out my side window. “If he pulls a weapon, we’re out of there. If we can get him to talk to us, we’ll play our next move by ear.”

  “Excellent plan,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “You got a better one?” Jack didn’t let up on the accelerator as we squealed around a forty mile-per-hour curve. Actually, it was as good a plan as I’d had in most of my capers. I held onto the door handle as we sped down the road. Finally, Jack pulled into the farm driveway and I relived the night I had photographed Strothers’ truck in the farmyard. I drummed my fingers on the armrest to expel my rising apprehension.

  The first thing I noticed was a pickup in the yard. We got out of Jack’s truck and walked briskly up to the kitchen door. The sound of a TV laugh track filtered through the door to the porch. Jack knocked, then knocked louder. The TV sound stopped and footsteps marched towards us. Ned opened the door wide, but as soon as he saw it was us, he immediately moved to close it. Fortunately, Jack was quick enough to wedge his boot between the door and its frame. He pushed the door open and grabbed Ned by the collar.

  “I didn’t mean any harm to you, ma’am. Honest,” he said to me. His rheumy eyes pleaded at me behind their thick glasses. “I
quit workin’ for him when I couldn’t do what he wanted me to do anymore.” He lifted a shaky hand to his bald head and shifted his gaze to the floor.

  “Quit working for who?” Jack said.

  “Strothers,” he said. “I quit workin’ for Strothers. You gonna hurt me?”

  “Not as long as you answer my questions,” Jack said, giving him a little shake. “What did he want you to do?”

  “He had me build him a fire bomb. Said he wanted to use it to shoo some skunks outa his back yard. He was lyin’ to me. He made me throw it at her house.” He pointed at me. “That’s when I said I couldn’t work for him no more. I needed the money he was payin’ me. Farmin’ don’t pay much. But when it comes to somethin’ like that, well, I told him to find someone else. I ain’t got the stomach for it.”

  I tried to catch his eye, but he kept his head down. “Did you follow me into the woods?”

  “Yah, that was me,” he said, chin on his chest. “I wasn’t gonna hurt you none, jest keep an eye on you.” He peered up at me. “That’s all he asked me to do. Keep an eye on you.”

  “Know where Strothers is now?” Jack glared at him and raised his voice.

  “No, sir. I ain’t seen him since he come here to pick up the bottle with the stuff in it.”

  “Know anybody who might know where he is?”

  Ned shook his head.

  “Think!” Jack said, pushing him against the kitchen counter. “Somebody we know could get hurt real bad unless we find Strothers first.”

  “Uff da,” Ned said, shaking his head, visibly upset and scared. “I shouldn’t of let myself get talked into this. Money ain’t worth it.”