“You can redeem yourself, if you help us find him now,” Jack said.
Ned shook him off and shuffled wearily over to the refrigerator and pulled down a scrap of paper held in place by a magnet. It advertised the local farm co-op. “Here,” he said, handing it to Jack. “Might do you no good, but she might know where he is.” The scrap of paper held a penciled telephone number.
“Who’s this woman you’re talking about?” Jack asked.
“Strothers’ answerin’ service.”
“Ok, Ned, here’s what I want you to do,” Jack said, waving the piece of paper in front of Ned. “I want you to pick up the phone and call this number. Think about what you’ll say, because when you hang up, I want to know where to start looking for Strothers.”
Ned stroked his chin as he paced the small kitchen. I could see the fear in his eyes. Coming to a decision, he finally picked up the phone receiver from a black table-model rotary-dial telephone, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since I first lived at Mrs. A’s. It was connected to its base by a curly cord. He dialed the number and waited. “This is Ned,” he said, his voice cracking. “I hafta reach Guy quick-like. No, I tried his cell phone and he don’t answer. I’ve got some information he wants. Know how I can get a hold of him? He still in Colton Mills?” He reached for an envelope on the counter beside the phone. “The Village Inn. Yah, I got the numbers. You betcha. Thanks.”
He handed the envelope to Jack. “Looks like a Wisconsin number,” he said. “My brother Eldon lives in Madison and I always use that area code. Guess Strothers’ ain’t in town.”
“Poor bastard,” Jack said as we drove back to the highway minutes later. “All he wanted to do was make a little money and he got sucked in by Strothers. You’ve got to give him credit for not going further than his conscience allowed.”
“I don’t care about Ned,” I said. “Virgil lives in Madison. Strothers is from Chicago, so what’s he doing in Wisconsin? If Strothers was plotting to warn me away from an investigation of Eric’s murder by hiring Ned to fire bomb my apartment, who knows what he’s capable of doing. Maybe Virgil is in serious danger.”
Jack picked up his cell phone and punched in Steve’s number. “Hey, buddy,” he said, “you’re not answering so I’ll leave this info in your answering machine. I’ve got a hot lead on Strothers and I think it’s important enough to alert the authorities in Madison, Wisconsin. Virgil’s life could be on the line.” He read Steve the Village Inn’s telephone number. “Call me as soon as you can.”
Chapter 27
Wednesday—Week Four
Jack’s warning was too late. When Steve returned his call, it was to report bad news. The Wisconsin authorities had already answered a neighbor’s 911 call on a similar matter. Virgil’s house was fully engulfed in flames by the time they got there. Although a vehicle was in the garage unharmed by the fire, when they extinguished the raging house fire, they discovered the badly burned body of an adult male in the ashes.
“That poor man,” I said when Jack delivered the news.
“Steve told the police we may have a lead for them, if they determine the fire was caused by arson. Of course, we have no proof it was Strothers. He may simply have been on his way back to Chicago. He’d probably take the highway that skirts Madison.”
“Strothers is too slippery,” I said. “He’ll have an airtight alibi. If only we had tipped off the authorities sooner, maybe Virgil would still be alive.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Cass. It’s not your fault. It’s for the Wisconsin police to solve.”
“But, if they—”
“We were simply too late, Cass. I regret it, but we tried.”
My heart was not in my work the rest of the day. I stumbled through my appointments, trying not to think of how one more life had ended in tragedy, most likely at the hands of Guy Strothers, who didn’t want a repeat of the Chicago property fiasco in his Colton Mills dealings. Marty stopped me later that day as I was driving into my garage. He, too, had heard about the Wisconsin fire.
“I seem to remember your saying there was a connection between that man Virgil Dewitt and Strothers,” he said, frowning. “Was this fire good news or bad news?”
“Bad news for Virgil and possibly bad news for me, too,” I said. “I think Strothers was so focused on getting to Virgil, he didn’t have time to bother me in the past couple days. But now that he’s dispatched Virgil, it’s only a matter of time before I hear from him again. Deputy Shaw hasn’t forgotten me either. This isn’t Wisconsin, Marty. This is Minnesota and he’s got three murders of his own to solve. I found all three bodies. Strothers or no Strothers, Cassandra Cassidy is his prime suspect.”
“I’m still on that list, dear. Deputy Shaw is coming to pay me a visit tomorrow. He knows more than he’s letting on. It was Abraham Lincoln who said, ‘You can fool all the people some of the time, and some of the people all the time, but you cannot fool all the people all the time.’”
Over and over again, I pondered those words, until I finally drifted off to sleep around two o’clock in the morning. I also wondered what would become of Midnight. Would some unknown relative claim ownership of him? Maybe I should get a dog. A dog was man’s best friend. I needed a good friend.
Chapter 28
Thursday—Week Four
It was Thursday already. I placed an X over the past two dates on my wall calendar and thought about all that had occurred in Colton Mills during the month of June. Since I had no reason to drive into town, I brewed my own coffee. While sipping it at the counter, I reached into the basket where I’d deposited the contents of my pockets after visiting Kathleen’s apartment. I pulled out the picture I’d taken from her bedroom. A young woman, comfortable with the camera, gazed confidently into it. “You must be Kathleen,” I said to the picture.
But I wouldn’t know for sure if it were Kathleen until I saw the picture at Shannon’s wedding, still two weeks away. Yielding to a perverse need to tie up loose ends, I tried to think of how I could find another photo of her. The Internet. School yearbooks. Drive out to Shannon’s house. The library. The library article! I had completely forgotten the clipping about Kathleen’s accident I had copied at the library before meeting with Stacy! Perhaps a photo accompanied it.
I pulled off my Levi’s from a hook in my closet where I had hung them. The article was in the back pocket. I unfolded it and brought it back to the kitchen. Just as I had hoped, the picture of a young woman was a dead ringer for the one in the frame in front of me.
I poured myself a second cup of coffee, feeling relieved. Now I could put that mystery to rest. Virgil, grieving for his daughter, had kept the apartment and visited it each month to maintain his connection with Kathleen. Now the apartment was vacant, and Virgil was lying in the ashes of his home in Wisconsin.
I idly scanned the rest of the article as I sipped my coffee. It was a familiar story of too much speed on a too-slippery road, the driver losing control, and the passenger getting the worst of the accident. In the next paragraph, a name jumped out at me so unexpectedly, I spilt coffee across the counter. “The driver of the vehicle, Eric Hartfield, escaped with only minor injuries.”
Eric Hartfield! There was more. According to the article, the accident was compounded by a series of errors, causing enough delay to prevent Kathleen’s swift transport to the hospital. The dispatcher had sent the ambulance driver in the wrong direction. The ambulance driver had taken too long to call for a helicopter evacuation. Then the helicopter pilot was late in arriving. The article quoted the dispatcher: “We did the best we could, but our best wasn’t good enough to save her.” The dispatcher’s name was Jim Tuttle.
So many terrible thoughts crowded my mind, I had difficulty separating them into something that made sense. I was willing to bet Randy Pearce was the ambulance driver and Marty the helicopter pilot. Before I could change my mind, I punched in Jack’s number and got his voice mail. “Jack, I need to know if Randy was the ambulance driver for
the accident that killed Kathleen Dewitt last year. It’s important.”
Then I punched in Marty’s number. Busy. I tried again. Still busy. I ran down the stairs and across the yard to his house, ignoring the sound of my ringing cell phone. The caller would leave a message. Marty’s vehicle was in the driveway. Not surprisingly, he didn’t respond to a knock on the door, so I headed around the house to the back yard. Dashing down the sidewalk, while ignoring the increasing pain in my ankle, I called out to him as soon as I spotted him. He was standing near the table where he always placed his tomahawks before throwing them. “Marty! Marty! I have to talk to you!” I shouted, while sprinting toward him.
“Go back! Go back!” he shouted at me.
I was already halfway across the yard. “Marty, I have to ask you something important.” At that moment, I saw a movement under the house’s second-floor balcony from the corner of my eye. Willis Lansing stepped out of the shadows. He held two black powder pistols. Both were pointed at me!
“Cassandra, dear, you certainly have a nose for trouble. Now I shall have to deal with you, too ” He motioned with the pistols for me to move closer to Marty.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Is this one of your reenactments?”
He laughed. “Your coming here is a most unfortunate happenstance. I have grown quite fond of you.”
I cast a quick glance at Marty. His face was white under his beard. I turned to face Willis again. “Unfortunate? This . . . this isn’t a reenactment for another Rendezvous, is it? This isn’t an . . . an act.”
“You are an unusually bright young woman, Cassandra. Now I have no choice. There must be two victims to an accident.”
“What do you mean . . . accident? What accident?” My head swiveled back and forth between Willis and Marty. Marty seemed incapable of speaking. I turned my questioning eyes to Willis.
“Before you dropped in, Marty and I were having an interesting discussion.” He smiled at his friend. “Tell Cassandra the nature of our discussion, Marty.”
I turned to Marty, but he didn’t respond. His eyes seemed to be apologizing to me.
“Come, come, Madigan. Tell this young lady what we were talking about.” Willis waved one of the pistols at him. “It would be most upsetting, if I have to discharge this weapon before I am ready.”
Marty didn’t move a muscle. His eyes never left Willis as he spoke to me. “He says his real name is Virgil Dewitt and not Willis Lansing, Cassandra. His daughter Kathleen was killed in a car accident last year. It appears he blames the driver of the car and the emergency crew for her death. He’s set on revenge.”
“But, Virgil is . . .” My mind was spinning. “I . . . I thought Virgil DeWitt was killed in a house fire on Tuesday. The police found his body.” I turned to face Willis. “It was his . . . your house . . . in Wisconsin,” I stammered.
He laughed, the sound harsh and hideous to hear. “As you can see, my dear, I am very much alive. The body they found among the ashes was the body of a nemesis of mine.”
“Strothers!” I gasped, finally understanding.
“Ah, yes,” Virgil said, poker-faced and showing no signs of remorse. “I anticipated the arrival of Guy Strothers and met him with a welcoming party he did not expect. I torched the house and drove away in his vehicle. Fortunately, the police believe I was the ill-fated victim of the fire.” His voice was cold and I started to shiver uncontrollably. I had never met a serial killer face to face before. Is this what happens to a person who loses a loved one?
“How much of this did you know about?” Marty spoke to me, but his eyes never left Willis. Virgil. I was so confused.
“Part of it,” I said, staring directly at the pistol pointed at me. “Did . . . did he kill Eric and try to pin his murder on you by using your tomahawk?”
“I applaud your detection skills, Cassandra,” Virgil said. “Too bad you will not have the opportunity to share your findings with law enforcement.”
Law enforcement. Marty had said Deputy Shaw was coming to his house today. A glimmer of hope stirred inside. Maybe, if I could keep Virgil talking, we would have a chance to . . . .
Virgil was about ten feet from us. Neither Marty nor I would be able to reach him in time to relieve him of his pistols. “You were the man in the parking lot photograph, weren’t you?”
“Indeed, I was. Thank you for tipping me off about its existence. It prompted me to speed up my plans.”
“And Kathleen’s apartment?” I continued, trying to stave off the inevitable. “Were you paying the rent in cash every month and visiting here?”
His frowned. “How you managed to put these pieces together, I don’t know. But yes, you have figured out most of it.”
“What are you going to do now?” I wanted to wrap my arms around Marty and weep for those who had lost their lives because of Virgil DeWitt’s sorrow, but I stood frozen in place.
DeWitt took a step forward. “You and Marty are two remaining loose ends. You will walk toward the target and be killed when Marty accidentally discharges his black-powder pistol, Cassandra. Overcome by what he has done, he will turn the second weapon on himself.” As if he could read my thoughts, he waved the pistols at us. “But before you go, please secure Marty for me. I don’t trust him.” He threw me a set of handcuffs and a roll of duct tape from a patio table next to him.
I cuffed Marty’s hands to the arm of a cast-iron patio chair and covered his mouth with duct tape. “I’m so sorry,” I murmured. “I should have figured this out sooner.” I desperately tried to think of a way to stop Virgil. He only had two shots. One from each weapon. The possibility remained that I could somehow distract him—at least long enough for the deputy to arrive. But how?
Virgil continued his diatribe. “Once I have dispatched the two of you, I will take care of the other interloper.” He gestured with his head toward a chair in the shadows of the patio roof.
Dear God! It was Deputy Shaw! He was bound hand and foot and duct tape was plastered across his mouth, too. My heart sank and acid rose in my throat. I had been counting on Shaw to rescue us. Now, with those hopes dashed, I steeled myself for what was to come, closing my eyes and breathing a prayer for help. I wanted to leave this earth standing tall and being the brave young women Mrs. A had loved.
Virgil was ready to begin his last murder spree. “Now,” he said. “Walk slowly toward the target, Cassandra, and don’t try any tricks. I’m not in the mood.”
I took one last look at Marty and turned away to head for the target. My feet felt like lead. My ankle chose this moment to shoot sharp reminders of my past indiscretions. With only one shot, Virgil couldn’t afford to miss. I already knew he was an ace shooter. A million thoughts raced through my memories. Mrs. A would be furious at me for putting myself in this predicament. All her training had been for naught. Would he shoot me in the back? On impulse, I whirled around and faced him. He had one of the pistols aimed directly at me.
Suddenly, a figure emerged on the balcony behind him.
I froze and kept my eyes focused on Virgil, who was visibly angry for my failure to follow orders. A lariat silently snaked through the air and settled over his chest. It was yanked taut. The pistol aimed at me discharged harmlessly into the air. The other one dropped to the ground. Virgil was jerked off his feet and dragged backward.
I dashed forward and snatched the weapon from the grass, aiming it at my assailant. My hand shook violently, and I used my other one to hold it steady. “Don’t move a muscle,” I said, my voice strong and filled with anger. “I won’t hesitate to use this thing.”
Jack dropped from the balcony in a flying leap and secured Virgil to a balcony support post. “There.” He pushed the black Stetson off his forehead, wiped his brow with the back of a hand, and surveyed his handiwork. “You’re not going anywhere until someone comes to take you away.”
I rushed to his side. “How did you—”
“I picked up your message on my cell phone while I was at the feed store,” h
e said. “Since your place was on the way, I decided to stop and see what was so important. You weren’t home, but your vehicle was. I figured you might be at Marty’s, so I went looking for you. When I saw what was happening, I called the sheriff on my cell phone.”
“Did you hear the whole thing?”
“Most of it. Enough to know the sheriff wouldn’t get here in time. I was afraid to distract Virgil, when I didn’t have a gun to back me up. I went back for the only weapon I had in the truck. My rope.”
Two deputies, guns drawn, rounded the corner of the house. Quickly sizing up the situation, they secured Virgil in cuffs, then untied the shaken Deputy Shaw. “DeWitt intercepted me when I arrived to question Mr. Madigan,” he said, rubbing his wrists where the ropes had dug into his flesh. “He forced me to drive my squad car into the garage, where it would be hidden from view. His vehicle is in there, too. Or, Guy Strothers’ vehicle, according to his own confession.”
Shaw turned to Marty and me. “I apologize for keeping the two of you on my short list. My deputies and I completely screwed up this investigation. We’re not used to situations like this in Clayton County. We’re regrettably rusty. I’ll get back to you tomorrow for your testimonies. Again, you have my profound apologies.”
I watched him march an exhausted and cheerless Virgil DeWitt across the lawn. It was at that precise moment reality hit me. They were hauling away the man who had taken out his unresolved suffering and need for revenge on three Colton Mills men. The same man who had been one lucky lasso toss away from the last of his murderous plans. Plans that would have ended my life, too.
Chapter 29
Friday—Week Four
Four weeks of my life had passed by in a blur. Four weeks, when I hadn’t known from one day to the next whether I would be spending the rest of my life in prison. I owed Jack big time. But he owed me some answers. When I finally got through the telephone gauntlet of reporters calling him, I invited him to meet me at the only place I could think of where we could clear the air.
A Rendezvous to Die For Page 22
