“I mostly train Quarter Horses and teach some roping.”
“Roping?”
“Yeah, roping,” he said, “I gained a pretty good roping reputation in Texas and have some belt buckles and even a fancy saddle to prove it. How about you? You sure haven’t changed much after all these years. The braids are gone, but I’d know those blue eyes anywhere.” I had brown eyes. “I heard you went off to New York to study art or something.” He glanced toward the horse stalls and lowered his voice. “I heard you got, you know, married.”
Since my circle of acquaintances was small, I was very seldom confronted about my past. But here it was. “I was in New York for a while. To study photography, not art. As for marriage, well . . . .” I peered over his shoulder toward the approaching darkness behind the opened barn door.
“Well?” Jack prompted.
I shrugged. “Let’s just say marriage to a musician isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“So you ended it?”
I reached for my clipboard, which had fallen to the floor of the stables and swept clinging straw with my hand. “Sort of. He went on a tour out west and didn’t come back.”
“Geez, that’s too bad, Cass. Then you came back to Minnesota?”
“I missed the place.” I smoothed my hair. Could my stomach be fluttering? Annoyed with myself, I asked, “So how come you’re working here so late?”
“I was practicing with the Patrol and just got back.”
“Patrol? That would be the—”
“The Mounted Horse Patrol. I rode with them years ago. They had an opening this spring and I joined up again. Sometimes I serve as a reserve deputy sheriff.”
I pictured Jack as a county crime fighter on horseback. My recollection of the Horse Patrol was that most of the riders spent their time touring the county fairs in the summer or searching for the occasional lost or missing person. “Sounds like fun.”
“It is. Actually, I’m at the stables to play veterinarian. Midnight, one of the horses stabled here, cut a big gash in his leg when he kicked out a piece of the wood fence in the south pasture. I have to treat the injury a couple times a day.”
“That black gelding over there?” I pointed to its stall. “I noticed him when I was snooping around. Will he be okay?”
“He’ll be himself again in a week, ten days.”
“How come you’re nursing him? Where’s the owner?”
“He belonged to a girl who died not too long ago. Her father keeps up the board, but nobody has ridden Midnight or paid him much attention in months.”
“Bummer,” I said. Then I remembered a conversation I’d had the previous week with one of my wedding clients. “I might know someone who’d be interested in the horse. Let me know if he’s for sale.”
“Sure, I’ll check it out.” He crossed his long legs and leaned his backside against the wall, chewing the end of a hay stem. “Anything exciting in your life these days?”
Anything exciting in my life. Talk about understatement. I took a deep breath. “I’ll give you the short version,” I said, and related the events of the past few days. “You hadn’t heard about any of this?”
“Not a word. But I don’t have much time to follow the local news.” He narrowed his eyes. “By any chance, does that bad experience at the Rendezvous have anything to do with your reaction to the fire I just put out?”
“It’s a lifetime phobia,” I said, massaging the scar on my neck. “Fires terrify me.”
“That was pretty obvious.” He walked beside me, as I headed for my car. “You know, Cass, Prairie Township is my old stomping ground. For what it’s worth, some of my buddies are deputy sheriffs there. Keep me informed about what’s going on. You may need some help.”
When I didn’t respond, he continued. “I’m holding a cutting clinic on Thursday afternoon. Why don’t you stop by?”
Despite my reluctance to expand our re-acquaintanceship, my “photographic opportunity” antenna went up. Cutting cows was a regular chore at real working ranches and catching on as a sport in Minnesota. I could pad my photo portfolio with some horse-action shots that could eventually turn into “hay.” Not one to turn down the thought of making more money, I nodded and even managed to grin. “Thanks for the invitation, Jack. I might stop by,” I said. I slipped under his arm, which was holding the door to my Jeep, and slid onto the driver’s seat. “At any rate, I may see you when I hold my next wedding photo shoot here.”
* * *
Wednesday
Lawton Sanders called me bright and early Wednesday morning with jarring news I could have done without. “Deputy Sheriff Shaw would like to interview you again,” he said. “Today.”
I slumped against the wall of my kitchen. “That guy doesn’t sit well with me. Do I have to go?”
“I’m afraid you do,” he said. “I’ll be there, too. Shaw asked for a meeting this afternoon. Is that too soon for you?”
I sighed. “No, that’s fine. Let’s get it over with.”
This time, the police had managed to free up a regular interrogation room. No more questioning in the basement bomb shelter. However, the more conventional surroundings didn’t make Deputy Sheriff Shaw any more pleasant. He greeted us curtly and launched right into his questions. “Did you know where your landlord, Mr. Madigan, kept his tomahawks?” He chewed on the inside of his bottom lip.
“No, sir,” I said.
“You said you observed him throwing tomahawks in his backyard prior to the tournament. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir. I did see him practice with a couple the first day I met him, but I was focused on the possibility of—”
“Then you’re saying you did know about his tomahawk throwing.” Shaw nibbled on the inside of his left cheek this time.
“Not really. Not to the extent you—” I glanced at Sanders, who barely nodded.
“And you live directly next door to Mr. Madigan, on the same property. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, theoretically, you would have access to his tomahawks, since he stores them outside his dwelling and in a shed near the carriage house.”
“Well, theoretically, I suppose.” I glanced at Sanders again and wished he would stop the questioning.
Shaw flipped to another page on his notepad. “Did you know Mr. Madigan would be at the Rendezvous?”
“How could I have known that, if I never saw him and hadn’t talked with him since the day I signed the lease for my apartment?”
Shaw slapped the table with his hand. “I ask the questions, Miss Cassidy. I repeat, did you know he would be at the Rendezvous?”
“No, sir, I didn’t.”
“Did you acquire a list of the participants in the ‘hawk-throwing competition?”
“When I entered the gate of the Rendezvous, I was given a schedule of events and locations.”
“Then you did know your landlord would be a tomahawk-throwing participant.”
“No,” I countered. “The participants’ names were listed in their Rendezvous character names. I had no idea what his Rendezvous name was . . . or anyone else’s.”
Shaw made a notation on his clipboard. “You’ve photographed Indians for several years, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ever photograph Indians throwing tomahawks?”
“Not that I remember, but—”
“Is this your photo?” He held up an eight-by-ten photo.
I took the picture from him and studied it. “It could be.”
“And what is the subject of the photo?”
“An Indian throwing a tomahawk.”
“Now do you remember where and when you took it?” The look on Shaw’s face indicated I’d better remember, or else.
“I photograph many Indians at many events. This one . . . escapes my mind.”
“It escapes your mind.” Shaw made a few more notes on his clipboard and peered up at me without moving his head. “How well do you know Frank Kyopa, t
he head of the Prairie River Band, Miss Cassidy?”
I glanced at Sanders, who was scribbling notes of his own. Shaw’s question had startled me. “I . . . I see him fairly often at the Indian events I attend, and I’ve photographed him a few times.”
“And . . . how would you characterize your relationship?”
“No ‘relationship,’” I said. “I know him enough to greet him, if we’re at the same event, and to photograph him at the various public events we attend. He would recognize who I am and he has purchased some of my photographs.”
“Don’t you know him well enough to testify on his behalf . . . against Eric Hartfield?”
I sighed inwardly, hating for my interrogator to see me feeling rattled. I shouldn’t be surprised that he had done his homework. Expecting more questions about my court testimony, I fidgeted with the ring on my right hand, glad that my shaking hands were hidden under the table. “Can you explain to me how your hair was found on Hartfield’s body?”
“My hair couldn’t have been on Eric’s body!” I said, literally sputtering.
Now Shaw had my attorney’s attention. Sanders peered closely at the deputy. “You’ve got proof, I assume?”
“Initial investigation strongly suggests it’s Miss Cassidy’s,” Shaw said. “We’ll know the results when the lab work comes in.” Shaw pushed back his chair and slammed his notebook closed. “We are still in the investigative phase, Miss Cassidy, but I’d strongly suggest you don’t leave town. Our questioning isn’t over. Not by a long shot.” He glanced briefly at Sanders and left the room.
I rubbed my temples. A massive headache was already in progress. “Do you have any idea what that was all about, Lawton? I felt like I was on trial.”
Sanders packed up his notes. “He’s definitely playing hardball,” he said. “But I think he’s fishing.”
His reassuring words offered small comfort. Feeling decidedly defeated, I shuffled out of the police station, feeling for all the world like an already convicted felon.
* * *
Running full speed on my treadmill, an hour later, somewhat calmed me down. At least enough to think rationally. I had run the interview through my mind several times. Things weren’t looking good for me. The only thing I had going for me was that Shaw hadn’t yet arrested me. Nevertheless, I was still free to figure out the real killer. I had to find out more about Marty. That was a given. Anna had told me his wife had left him, never to be heard from again. In light of recent events, I wondered if she had left him, or if he had something to do with her turning up missing. The idea that Marty may not be the victim in his wife’s disappearance, but the one who caused it intrigued me. If he could do in his wife and son, he could certainly kill Eric. But why? What could his motive possibly be? Motive was key.
After clocking five miles, I still hadn’t come up with a plausible way to conduct my investigation. I wasn’t accustomed to snooping into people’s lives, but my own was at stake. I’d have to get over any reticence I had.
Jack, of all people, gave me my first lead. I was pretty sure that I hadn’t heard the last of him. I had opened too many opportunities for him to insert himself into a murder investigation, especially when the female who hadn’t responded positively to his charms was knee-deep in the outcome. His call came as soon as I hopped off the treadmill.
”Hey, Cassandra, are you still trying to find out what you can about your landlord, Marty?”
“Well, yes, I guess so,” I said.
“I might be able to help you out.” Jack sounded cheery and confident.
“You know him?”
“Not personally, but my friend Randy works with him in the city’s emergency services department. He’s told me that Marty has a hot temper. I’ll set up a meeting with him tomorrow, if you want.”
“That would be great, Jack. Thanks. And Jack . . . let’s tell anyone I’m doing this. All right with you?”
“Sure. No problem. I aim to please.”
Chapter 7
Thursday
I woke up the next morning drenched in perspiration again. I had experienced the same dream that had plagued me for years. I was being carried, kicking and screaming from a fire. The fire was so real, I could feel the heat and smell the smoke. I could even feel the rawness in my throat from crying and breathing deadly fumes.
As a child, I would wake up crying when the dream came. Now, I wake up in a sweat, relieved to know it’s only a dream. I would keep the dream in the “fantasy” category, except the scar on my neck continuously reminds me that the fire may not be only in my imagination. Even though no one has ever said, “I know a fire separated you from your parents,” I know I’ll never get the dream to go away until, someday, I smoke out the story behind it.
But not today. And probably not tomorrow. I was used to me the way I was. If I threw real parents into the mix, I’d have to recreate myself . . . again.
I was drinking my second cup of coffee, trying to put my dream behind me, when Lawton Sanders rang my doorbell. “Cassandra, the sheriff’s department has issued a warrant to search your house,” he said.
“When and what for?”
“They’re searching for anything that might help them in their investigation. I advise you to cooperate with them.”
“Can I expect to see the deputy sheriff from hell again?”
Sanders gave me a stern look. “Don’t underestimate Deputy Shaw, Cassandra. His kind can be very dangerous.”
“Why’s that?”
His frown deepened and his gaze became more intense. “A low-ranking, but ambitious law-enforcement officer looks forward to making his reputation on a case such as yours. He may be much more aggressive than seasoned members of the force and read much more into so-called evidence that he uncovers. The police humiliated him when they put him in the basement for your initial interview. He’s got a lot to prove.”
I ushered my attorney into the living room. “I still can’t believe Shaw has his sights set on me. If he read that entire case against Eric, he’d know all I did was use my expertise to show that the incriminating photograph had been doctored.”
“He’s young, and he’s playing the odds. He knows that the person who discovers a victim is often the person who perpetrated the crime. I expect you’ll hear much more from him.”
Right on cue, the doorbell rang. “I have a warrant to search your premises,” Shaw said, when I opened the door.
“Be my guest,” I said, accepting the warrant and sweeping my arm into the house to motion him inside. What could he find? I had no stash of tomahawks. No bloody clothes. No weapons. He was wasting his time.
Nevertheless, it was hard to keep from worrying, as Shaw and his crony pawed through my cabinets and pulled items off the shelves. As soon as they were gone, I’d launder every item of clothing they touched and thoroughly clean the whole place. My only consolation was knowing they’d find nothing incriminating.
Two hours later, Shaw asked for access to my computer. The request had the effect of slapping me upside my smug, complacent head. Eric Hartfield had not only tweaked me in person every chance he got, but he’d sent me irritating e-mails whenever the spirit moved him—or whenever my Indian photos were in the newspaper or on TV. I led Shaw to my upstairs office and opened my computer. I had deleted the majority of Eric’s e-mails, but there were enough left that when Shaw found them, he thought he’d hit the Big Bear casino jackpot. I read the first two from the monitor:
Date: Mon, 14 Jun 18:14:54 -0500
To: Cassandra Cassidy
From: Eric Hartfield
Subject: Sunday’s Star Tribune review
CCAS: Read Sunday’s review of your latest. Some reviewers are too easy to impress. <
Date: Sat, 28 Aug 21:11:23 -0500
To: Cassandra Cassidy
From: Eric Hartfield
Subject: Another f
ool’s been sucked in
CCAS: I have walls that are more intelligent than the guy who wrote that <
I thanked my lucky stars I’d had the sense not to enter into a cyberspace shouting match with Eric and had never responded to his messages; there were no threats from me to Eric in my outbox. However, I did live to regret my habit of storing files on my computer to avoid paper clutter. Shaw immediately pounced on a folder I’d foolishly entitled eric and added more arrows to his growing mass of evidence. Right there, in plain sight, was a years’ worth of Eric’s columns.
Shaw’s face was virtually gleaming with this discovery. By the time he’d copied those articles and e-mails onto CD-R disks he’d brought with him, I felt tried, convicted, and sent up for the murder of Eric Hartfield.
“Damn!” I said to Sanders, after Shaw and his buddy had left. I threw a displaced pillow back onto the sofa. “Damn him! My lovely, comfortable carriage house will never be the same, now that it has been dirtied by Shaw pawing through my personal belongings. How could I have allowed myself to be so blindsided?”
“Keep telling yourself this is routine business, Cassandra. You know you’re innocent and so do I. Trust me to do my job and don’t let Shaw draw you into a verbal war.” He headed for the front door. “I’m going back to my office now. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”
As soon as he had left, I furiously sprayed shelves with a household cleanser, spritzed furniture with polish, and did whatever it took to wipe away all vestiges of the deputies’ intrusion into my life. I couldn’t help but think of all the television shows I’d seen where innocent citizens had been railroaded for murder, only to be exonerated years later. Could that happen to me? I wouldn’t let it. I’d conduct my own investigation and beat Shaw to the punch.
Jack’s friend, Randy Pearce, was meeting me at Leo’s Bar at noon. It was a good place to start.
A Rendezvous to Die For Page 5