* * *
Leo’s Bar was like a hundred other roadhouses strung out along Minnesota’s rural roads. The one-story building hugged a row of spindly pine trees. Its walls were a nondescript gray that looked as though they hadn’t been repainted since the building was erected thirty years before. The windows were filled with the ubiquitous neon beer signs and appeared dreary in the noonday sun. Only three pickup trucks were parked in the gravel lot.
I knew who Randy was as soon as I entered the place. Tall and slender and decked out in jeans and boots, he could have been a Jack Gardner clone, except for his shy demeanor. He couldn’t meet my eyes when I introduced myself and shook his hand. I prattled on, trying to put him at ease, after we were seated across from each other in a red, cracked-vinyl booth. “Are you self-employed like I am, so you can get time off in the middle of the day?” I sipped my fourth cup of coffee for the day.
“Self-employed. Guess that’s a fancy way of sayin’ I work when there’s work to be had.”
Sensing Randy’s reluctance to engage in small talk, I cut to the chase. “Do you sometimes work with Marty Madigan?”
“I drive the ambulance for the city. That’s one of my jobs.” He picked at his fingernails. “It’s pretty chancy work. You don’t need an ambulance every day in a place like Colton Mills.”
I waited without speaking, as he took a drink of his Coors.
“Now, Madigan, he’s another sort altogether.” He glanced at me briefly, then focused on the suds topping his beer. “Not like us grunts, workin’ for a livin’. He shows up only when the rescue operation needs a chopper. You know . . . after a bad accident, when someone has to be flown to a big-city hospital. That’s the only time I see the guy. We’re not like friends or nothin’ like that.” He attentively wiped the condensation from his beer bottle.
The waitress heated up my coffee. “So . . . you drive the ambulance—”
“I see Marty, maybe three, four times in a year.” He played with his napkin, twisting it around his finger.
“Is he easy to work with?”
“He’s a grumpy kind of guy, know what I mean?” He glanced at me again. “Maybe he don’t mean nothin’ by it, but he can be rude as hell. And demandin’.” He motioned for the waitress to bring him another bottle of Coors.
“Like when?”
“The last time, I thought he was gonna throw a punch at one of the EMTs.” He took a long swig from the bottle.
“Why? What happened?”
Randy rested his elbows on the table and leaned toward me, making eye contact for the first time. “It was an accident out on County Road 113. Remember it? Middle of the winter? Colder ‘n a witch’s tit.”
“I can only imagine.”
He dropped his gaze and ran a finger around the rim of the beer bottle “A mother and her son went off the road and plowed into a snow fence. Both had to be airlifted out of there. We had the two bundled up when Madigan set his chopper down in the road. The guy insisted on seein’ their faces before he’d take ‘em on board.”
“Was that a problem?”
Randy folded his arms and leaned back in the booth, gazing in my general direction. “I’d say so. They’d been bandaged up and covered to keep from gettin’ frost bite and goin’ into shock. Usual thing is to just load ‘em up and fly the chopper to the hospital. Every minute counts. You know?”
“So what happened?” I leaned toward him to make sure I caught every word.
“Madigan kinda spazzed out.” He rubbed his forehead. “He’s a big guy, you know? He pulled his arm back like he was gonna hit the EMT guy, then yanked the cover off the woman, took a quick look, and told the EMT to load ’em up.”
“Was the EMT concerned that Marty might not transport them safely?”
“Well, yeah, but he wasn’t about to challenge him. He’s got the only chopper for miles around. Nobody’s gonna make Marty mad.”
“Thank you for telling me about this, Randy. I really appreciate it.” I reached into my pocket and handed him my business card. “Just in case you think of anything else,” I said.
All by itself, Marty’s behavior probably did seem strange, but if his family really did disappear without his knowledge, maybe he was still focused on searching for them. As much as anyone else, I knew the powerful pull family could have on a person. While Marty had a family and lost it, I remembered a time when I didn’t have a family and yearned for one.
Foster mothers would tell me, “Any day now, a family is going to swoop you up and take you home for their very own!” What I really wanted was for my own parents to come back and reclaim me. I imagined them “somewhere.” Whenever I went into a public place, I looked for my “real parents.” I’d check out every passing couple and listened to how they talked to each other or to their kids. I even studied their eyes, to see if they were like mine. But every year, my fantasy family faded further into the background, and months passed into years. Over and over again, I packed my meager belongings and moved on to another foster family’s house. Always abruptly. Always without discussion.
I remembered the oft-repeated scenario, as if it were yesterday. My social worker would come to school to pick me up. She’d take me out to her car, and my clothes would be there, in plastic bags. Once, I was allowed to keep a toy stuffed horse I’d gotten for a birthday. But in ten years, I didn’t own anything that couldn’t be put into a Hefty bag.
One day, I started looking forward to a permanent new family, not backward to the ones who’d abandoned me. As each placement ended, I would think that maybe the next one was the real family, the real mother, the real place I could stay forever. I still had my stuffed horse with me when the concept of “family” took on a whole new meaning. Mrs. A took me in and kept me with her until she died, when I was seventeen. I knew I was luckier than most of the foster kids I had bunked with over the years. I had four years of “family.” I had my own closet in my own bedroom filled with clothes Mrs. A had bought me. Soon, I was living the way I imagined “regular” kids lived—in a life filled with swimming lessons, picnics in the park, and pedaling a new bike through the streets. Because Mrs. A had no other family, it was always only the two of us, and I hoped the arrangement would never end. Mrs. A encouraged me to forget my past.
I thought about what I knew of Marty Madigan. Maybe he was still locked into his past, fixated on events that had occurred nearly forty years ago. Had his sadness or bitterness driven him to such anger that he’d kill the person who got in his way? Had Eric uncovered something about his past that he wanted kept buried? I wanted—needed—to know.
Chapter 8
Thursday mid-afternoon
On the way back from my meeting with Randy, I stopped in at Sanders’ office. He had persuaded the sheriff’s department to make a second copy of the photos they’d confiscated from me. He not only had my cameras and several fat envelopes of color prints, he also had an envelope with the photos from my digital camera copied onto a compact disc. Once again, I thanked God and Anna for sending Sanders to me. If I had depended on my own resources, I would probably never have seen the pictures again.
At home, an hour later, I loaded the disc into my computer and clicked through some of the photos. Images of people having a good time at the Rendezvous filled my screen and I forgot, for a moment, the last horrendous one taken at the door to the sweat lodge. When I flipped through the color prints, I stared at it, trying to see and remember any details that might provide a clue as to the identity of the murderer. When nothing seemed out of place, I gave up and stashed the photos in a folder in my file cabinet for future reference.
Since it was only 2:35 p.m., I decided to take Jack up on his invitation to visit his cutting clinic. The smell of horses and saddle leather had always been a good way to re-ground myself and I was ready for a diversion. Too much deep thinking was decidedly depressing.
I didn’t mind that the sky was overcast as I drove to Patriot Stables, because cloudy skies always produce more interestin
g photos. Already in a “downcast” mood, I wasn’t about to let the lack of brilliant sun deepen my gloominess. I focused on the types of photographs I could produce. By the time I reached the stables, my disposition had changed considerably. I was the always-interested professional.
Several horse trailers, still hitched to their pickups, were parked in the field surrounding the fenced arena situated a short distance from the barn. I parked on the other side of them, grabbed my camera and headed toward the group of mostly young riders—more girls than boys—who were focused on grooming the animals. The adults, who had driven the trucks, milled about drinking coffee and reading newspapers. The pounding rhythms and undecipherable lyrics of some new rock song intermingled with whinnies from one horse to another. I counted about fifteen horses. Jack was nowhere in sight.
A half dozen red and white Hereford calves drifted around the arena, occasionally bawling for their mothers. Teenage girls chatted while they saddled their horses, in their inimitable murder-the-English-language that always made me feel middle-aged. First girl: “Me and him went to the concert alone this time.” Response: “The concert was, like, you know . . . awesome.”
The overnight drizzle, which had produced the lingering overcast sky, had made the arena muddy. No one seemed to mind, although it appeared to be a messy day for both animals and riders. Once the horses were saddled and ready to go by their riders, they were taken to the gate. By now, I had snapped several photos and was searching for Jack. No one else seemed to mind that he wasn’t immediately available.
Five minutes later, Jack sauntered over to the group, leading his horse. He looped the bridle reins to the fence and greeted his students. He went from horse to horse, checking the tightness of the girths and the rest of the tack. “Lookin’ real good,” he said to the “concert” girl, obviously impressed with the figure she cut in tight jeans and spandex top. The girl beamed, and it took me back to the summer I was seventeen. I’d gotten sucked into Jack’s orbit, too, naively thinking he’d singled me out as someone special.
When the gear was checked out, Jack returned to his horse. “Cowboy up!” he shouted, and as if it were choreographed, fifteen jeans-clad legs swung across saddles in unison and, once all riders were astride their horses, they turned their attention to the arena. Jack exuded “Texas cowboy,” from his battered Stetson to his muddy chaps. The best pix are in the details, I thought, and zoomed in to photograph his well-worn cowboy boots poking through the stirrups.
Jack was uncharacteristically earnest as he addressed the riders. “The idea behind cutting is to separate a cow from the herd,” he said. “You’re going to teach your horses to mirror the cows’ moves, until an individual cow goes where you want it to go. That’s going to require good reining skills on your part and good athletic ability on your horse’s part. The first thing we’re going to do is introduce your horse to a cow.”
Well . . . calf, I thought to myself.
It didn’t take long to realize that Jack’s characterization of the event as a “cutting clinic” was a gross exaggeration. The horses hadn’t been trained for anything more than pleasure riding and the riders hadn’t the slightest idea as to what was expected of them. I moved into place, scoping out some interesting angles.
The riders had entered the arena and were maneuvering their horses close to the calves, which bunched together at one end of the arena. I continued snapping pictures, wishing for a little more action. Suddenly, I bumped into someone leaning on the wooden fence watching the activities. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t paying attention to anything other than what I see in my camera.”
“That is quite all right.”
As soon as the man straightened up and faced me, I remembered him as the one I’d wanted to photograph in a Kaiser uniform. “Mr. Lansing? We met in the vintage clothing shop on Monday.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, taking my hand between his two hands. “You are Cassandra Cassidy, the photographer who lives in Marty Madigan’s carriage house.”
“That’s right.” I eyed him with open curiosity. “I remember your saying that you know Marty quite well. Do you see him often?”
“Not often, but enough to say we’re more than acquaintances. We are both involved in reenactments. We will take it up again, when things settle down for him.”
“When and how do you think that will take place?”
“I have no way of knowing that, but as soon as the authorities discover who killed the reporter, Marty will no longer be under suspicion.”
“You sound certain that he’s not guilty. It was his tomahawk in Eric’s head.”
“My dear, Marty cannot be guilty.” He shook his head with vigor. “He is not the kind of person who could perpetrate such a crime.”
“How do you know that?”
“Over the years, Marty has very generously shared information about the Rendezvous with me.” He gazed across the arena toward the horizon. “He knows a great deal about the manner of dress, the language, activities, skills and even the weapons used in that time period. I have always found him to be nothing but a gentleman.”
“Did he ever say anything to you about Eric Hartfield?”
“Oh, no, our acquaintanceship is based primarily on subjects related to the Rendezvous. I have not talked with him since the event. I will, of course. I am simply giving him time to deal with the tragedy of the situation. I want him to know he has my support.”
My mind shifted into high gear. “Mr. Lansing—Willis—would you consider allowing me to accompany you on your visit to Marty, when you’re ready? I’d like to go to Marty’s house, but . . . you know, I’d like someone with me.”
Lansing threw back his head and laughed aloud. “Oh, Cassandra, Marty is not a dangerous person. But if it will make you feel better, I will do that for you.”
“Thank you,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. We exchanged cell phone numbers.
“And how about you?” Lansing stroked his jaw and peered more closely at me through narrowed eyes. “This has been a frightful ordeal for you as well, has it not?”
I nodded. “Yes, well—”
“You, too, will soon be exonerated. You must practice patience. Were you able to take some good photographs of the event, before the unfortunate incident ruined it for you?”
I nodded again. “Fortunately, yes. They were confiscated by the sheriff, but my attorney was able to negotiate their return just this afternoon. I’ve only had a few minutes to go over them, but I’m pleased with many.”
Our attention was drawn to the pounding of hoof beats from the other end of the arena and the shouting of the young people in one loud cacophony. I broke into a run along the fence to see what was happening. Without warning, a calf bolted by me and headed straight for the open pasture beyond the arena. Behind it, following every move the calf made, cowboy Jack Gardner rode to the rescue.
Jack twirled a rope above his head, while I snapped away. Finally, I’d have some action shots. As the horse closed in on the running calf, Jack’s lasso sailed into the air and slid over the calf’s neck. Jack’s horse came to an instantaneous stop. The action tautened the rope and the calf toppled into the grass and then scrambled to its feet and stood waiting. Jack towed the subdued animal safely back to the arena. I gave him a thumbs-up as he passed by and had to grin at the expressions on his students’ faces as they cheered. They were probably dreaming of the day they could repeat the action and with the same degree of skill.
I turned to resume my conversation with Lansing, but he had left the scene. I filed away his comments about Marty and congratulated myself for enlisting yet another ally in my quest to learn more about my landlord.
When the young cowboys and cowgirls had loaded up their horses and the last trailer had lumbered down the road, I set out to find Jack. He was in the tack room, putting away the last of the ropes, saddles, and bridles. “I got some good shots, but the best were of you,” I said. “Your students are rather green in calf cutting.”<
br />
He grinned. “Yeah, well, you work with what you’ve got. We’re a long way from Texas up here. Nary a real ranch in sight. They’re all caught up in the idea of playing cowboy though. They want to call it a cutting clinic. I let them get away with it.”
“Nice roping anyway.”
“You liked that, did you?” He looped his arm around my shoulders. “So you got some good pictures of me. To decorate your walls, I suppose.”
“I doubt it,” I said. “Maybe I’ll do a feature on you for Texas Monthly. A Minnesota cowboy. They’ll eat it up.” I squirmed out from under his arm. “I really came to tell you about my meeting with Randy today.”
“What do you suppose that was all about?” he asked, when I told him about Marty pulling back the tarp from the victims’ faces.
“Not sure. Unless it has something to do with his lost wife and child.”
“Where do you go from here?”
I sighed wearily. “Not sure. I’ve never done this before.”
“Why not talk to Randy again? Maybe he can give you some new leads, now that he trusts you. I know he’s home today.”
“Getting him to talk at all is like pulling teeth from a bunny rabbit, he’s so dang shy, Jack. What else could he tell me?”
“Anything is better than nothing. Don’t give up now.” Jack scribbled Randy’s home address on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. “I’ll call and tell him you’ll be stopping by later.”
* * *
All I knew about being involved in a murder was what I’d seen on television and in the movies. Watching a suspect squirm on film has little in common with being the squirmee. If I dwelled on my troubles, though, I’d go mad. Keeping appointments kept me sane and gave me the illusion that, at least temporarily, my life would go on.
I had no idea what else I would ask Randy and I couldn’t imagine what else he’d have to tell me, but visiting him would shorten the evening hours I had to spend alone. The sun was finally setting as I approached his house on the other side of town. He lived in the same farmhouse in which he had grown up. I reviewed what Jack had told me about him. One of six children, he had remained in the farmhouse as his siblings left one by one and after his parents died. The farmland had long ago been sold off. The house stood by itself on a smaller parcel of land surrounded by the now towering pines and maple trees his parents had planted fifty years ago. The encroaching housing developments suggested that Randy would have to make a choice about staying put or selling out in the near future.
A Rendezvous to Die For Page 6