Frank’s voice jolted me back from my daydreaming. “From our past dealings, Deputy Shaw could surmise I had a motive to see Hartfield dead, I suppose. Everyone knows we had no love for each another. Our war of words was always made public.”
I nodded. “You were quoted in the paper, once, as saying you’d just as soon slit Eric’s throat as look at him.” I tapped my pen against my notebook and grinned wryly. “That gives the sheriff a lot of ammunition.”
“A lot of people would have liked to slit Eric’s throat,” Frank said, pulling on an ear. “He was always out to agitate people and start a controversy.” He scratched a cheek and gazed directly at me. “They’ve got something else on me, too, Cassandra. I was in the vicinity about the time of the killing.”
“You were at the Rendezvous, too? I didn’t see you.”
“You know that I participate in traditional ceremonies whenever I can. I was at the sweat lodge the night before the Rendezvous and had returned in the morning to retrieve a hat I forgot in one of the teepees where I’d changed clothes. Somebody evidently saw me in the parking lot with the hat in my hand and informed Shaw of my presence.”
“I know you’ve got a thing about an old Stetson with a beaded hatband. Is that the one you left behind?”
“The very one. Kind of a lucky hat, I guess, and I didn’t want to lose it.”
“So, because of that you’re a suspect, too? But, why are they connecting you to me?”
He tented his fingers and brought them to his chin. “Has to be the court thing where you identified Eric’s fake photo. That’s the only connection I can think of. It’s also widely known that Eric didn’t take kindly to the verdict and losing his job at the Star-Tribune. He blamed both of us for the demise of his career.”
I sighed and slumped in my chair. “Whatever happened to that development business? It sounded like it was going through, even though you were adamantly opposed to it.”
“That development got postponed, maybe even cancelled.”
“How’d that happen?” I evidently hadn’t kept up on county events.
Frank stood and walked to the wall of windows in his office, a frown on his face. “Not the way you’d think. The county hosted an open house in the spring. Complete with little sandwiches, cheese balls, and stuff like that. Whenever there’s free food, Kenneth Good Heart shows up. You know him, Cassandra. Big mouth. A lot of stories.”
I did know him. I’d been hearing about his stories ever since I came to Minnesota. I could see his craggy face. Long, gray, stringy ponytail. Dancing, impish brown eyes. He always wore a derby-like hat. He’d long ago gotten false teeth, but usually left them in his pocket. I pictured him with his head back, roaring about some joke he’d just made, his hands slapping against his skinny jeans-clad knees.
“Ken is eighty-five, you know,” Frank said, turning to face me. “I think what’s kept him going all these years is bugging government bureaucrats. Last year—it was really dry, if you remember—he and two of his cousins performed two rain ceremonies in front of city hall to end the drought. When rain finally came, the last week of September, they sent a bill for $32,000 in expenses to the county, pointing out that their ceremonies had created the rainfall.”
I chuckled. It could have happened that way. “Did they pay?”
“Hell, no. But it’s typical of the way Kenneth tweaks the government. Anyway, at this particular city event, Kenneth got to gabbing about the old days. In the early 1950s, the tribe got a grant and built a paint manufacturing company on the reservation. It hung in there for about five years and went belly up. But here’s the clincher.” Frank returned to his desk and pounded a fist onto the surface. “Kenneth said the plant disposed of its wastes on the property outside the reservation. It amused him to contemplate the developers’ reactions when they discovered the mess they’d have to pay to clean up.”
“And did they?”
“Well, it didn’t get that far.” Frank reseated himself. “One of the commissioners at the event overheard the conversation and used the information to derail the whole development. I knew all about the paint factory and always assumed it was common knowledge. I did not know about the illegal dumping.”
“So what happened?”
“At the next meeting, this commissioner—Marty Madigan—dropped Kenneth’s bombshell on the entire commission board.”
I nearly choked when Frank mentioned Marty. This was the connection I was looking for. Marty knows Eric!
“Madigan had been against the development from the get-go and used Kenneth’s information to force the county to prepare an Environmental Impact Statement based on evidence that chemical wastes were dumped into the very wetlands that was slated for development.”
“Why was Marty against the development?”
“Two reasons, as far as I can tell.” Frank lifted his hand and extended his index finger. “One, Madigan’s kind of an ornery bastard and just likes to make waves.”
“And the second reason?”
He lifted a second finger, punching the air with his hand. “He didn’t trust Guy Strothers, the president of the Bridgewater Land Development Company. He had swept the commissioners off their feet with his fancy charts and promises of tax revenue. They never took the time to thoroughly check him out. Anyway, the time it will take to research the EIS could sidetrack the project until it’s too late to do anything about it this year. And if the outcome is finally negative, it could scuttle the project for good.” He folded his arms on the desk.
I settled back in my chair. “I imagine that didn’t sit too well with the developers.”
“Guy Strothers was livid.”
“Do you by any chance remember when that commission meeting took place?”
“I might.” Frank closed his eyes and drummed his fingers on the desk. “It was before Memorial Day weekend, but after my wife’s first day of work. That would make it about May 25th. Somewhere around there.”
I did some quick arithmetic in my head. That meeting was two weeks before the Rendezvous. Had Marty and Eric planned to meet at the sweat lodge? Maybe the meeting got out of control and Marty’ temper got the best of him. I considered other possibilities as I drove back to the carriage house.
Both Marty and Frank had tempers that erupted spontaneously, if they were pushed too far. Both found Eric exceedingly irritating. Eric had publicly humiliated both of them by working to expose a project they were against in a negative light. If Shaw had this information, why was he working so hard to involve me? And if Shaw had acquired knowledge of their verbal wars, why was he singling out Frank as Eric’s murderer and me as his accomplice? Randy’s name kept popping into my mind. What did either of these men have against Randy?
Other questions came to me, too. What was the motive? It was unlikely that two murders only days apart could be assigned to an eruption of temper. And, lest I forget, how would Frank have gotten a hold of Marty’s tomahawk? And why, if they were on the same page, would he deliberately set Marty up to take the fall? Maybe he simply found the lost tomahawk and didn’t know it belonged to Marty.
Of course, the other possibility was that Frank had been set up in an ingenious plot that, properly executed, could remove two thorns in the flesh—Eric and Frank. Actually, three men, if Marty were being set up as well. But Randy wasn’t in their league. Why Randy? My mind was reeling, by the time I reached the edge of town.
I decided it wouldn’t hurt to get more information on Guy Strothers. Hoping to find articles about the commission’s meetings, I headed over to the library to see if it kept past issues of the newspaper. Janine, the librarian, was familiar with the controversy. “My husband’s on that commission, too,” she said. Janine was married to Russell Cloud, an Ojibwe businessman. She tucked a bookmark into a mystery she was reading and leaned across her desk and lowered her voice. “I went to some of those meetings, Cassandra. Listening to the way the land-development people proceeded, you would think they were offering the county a gold min
e. The project was sprung on the commission last fall and worked its way through the system, until it was approved in March.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “The Bridgewater Company knew exactly how to play to the commissioners,” she said. “Strothers knew they were hungry for development money.”
Even though I’d never seen Strothers, I knew the type. Personable, energetic, even charismatic. I could see him mesmerizing the commission members with glowing descriptions of his project.
Janine was on a roll. She probably thought she was a key character in a local murder mystery and needed to use all her acquired knowledge of how to proceed. After confirming Frank’s take on what had happened regarding Strothers and his retinue of strategists and attorneys and their four-color Power Point graphs and charts, she continued. “They showed videos of citizens testifying to the success of his concept in other areas of the country. Boy, was he ever slick,” she said. “Even so, Russ thought the project didn’t have a prayer of succeeding. But he was wrong. Because of their selling skills, or their persistence—or who-knows-what might have changed hands behind the scenes—the commissioners voted in favor of the project. Only my husband and Marty voted against it.” She scratched her head and then patted her hair into place. “Later, when Marty came up with that EIS proposal, they couldn’t ignore it. They had to vote for the Impact Statement, even though they knew it could shut down the development for good.”
“Do you know how Strothers and the Bridgewater Land Company have performed in other projects?”
“Hmm, I don’t know anything more, Cassandra. Sorry. Personally, I haven’t been interested enough to look into it.”
I photocopied several news stories to read later, thanked Janine for her help, and left the library wondering how and if all this political brouhaha could be connected to Eric and Randy’s murders.
Reluctantly, I felt I had to add Frank to my list of suspects. No doubt some of Frank’s tactics were suspect, as he pushed his own political agenda. I had to admit, though, that if he were guilty of some of the things he was accused of in his trial—bribery, fraud, forgery, and tax evasion, even embezzlement—none of the court challenges over the years had ever held up. In the late nineties, he was elected chairman again. To the average reservation member, Frank Kyopa was a hero, bringing economic prosperity to a region that had never experienced it. In a few short years, he had expanded the tribe’s tiny floundering casino and made it highly profitable. He had developed other new businesses, too. And he had attracted more outside subsidies than his predecessors had done in all their decades of leadership. But . . . he still jealously guarded the tribe’s “cultural traditions,” a stand Eric had labeled as “ludicrous.” He still resisted any encroachment of outside development, a stand that got him crosswise of Strothers and his flunkies.
Strothers wasn’t Frank’s only enemy, of course. The political battlefield was riddled with them, from tribal leaders he had supplanted, to county and state bureaucrats he had ignored. I wasn’t naïve enough to think he’d survived all these challenges by turning the other cheek.
Back at home, after my day of sleuthing, I stretched out on my recliner and booted up my laptop to see what I could learn about Strothers. First, I Googgled Bridgewater Land Development Company and waited to see what would come up. As I expected, dozens of marketing information sites about “land development companies” filled the screen. I scrolled down until I found Bridgewater. It was a typical promotional site, wrapped in snazzy graphics and photos of successful developments. Not what I was looking for.
Back to Google for another try. I scrolled through several screens and got more of the same. I needed another approach. I tried land-development company evaluations. Nothing. Maybe land-development company news stories. Bingo. This one had possibilities. Thinking there might be something under Chicago Tribune real estate stories, I opened the site and typed “Bridgewater” into the search box. I hit pay dirt. Several articles had been written about the Bridgewater Land Development Company. But the most interesting was a column written by the one of the paper’s business columnists the previous summer.
In a nutshell, the columnist wrote that Bridgewater, although it looked good on paper, was a very shaky company. The company’s strategy had been to buy up property forfeited for taxes or other nonpayment, and then develop it. The strategy had worked for several years, but like a pyramid scheme, it was beginning to catch up with them. Bridgewater had taken on a lot of debt in its last deal, building a fifty-acre office park in a Chicago suburb, and the offices were only about fifty-five percent leased.
I was willing to bet they had a huge stake in the Minnesota deal going through to completion.
Chapter 13
Tuesday—Week Two
If such a thing as a perfect morning for a funeral existed, this morning didn’t meet the criteria. I had awakened to the sound of pelting rain against my windows. From the looks of the charcoal-gray sky outside, I guessed we were in for a full day of the wet stuff. I dreaded the idea of going to Randy’s funeral, yet I had to do it.
As I drove down the driveway and onto the county road taking me to the church, my wipers worked hard, but were losing the battle to keep the windshield clear. I hunched over the steering wheel, mentally willing them to work faster and harder. Over the sound of the rain pounding on the roof overhead, I listened to people sharing their weather stories with the morning radio-news host. A segment of the Colton Mills population was more dependent on the whims of Mother Nature than I was, and most were far more grateful for the unrelenting downpour.
“This has been the hottest June I can remember,” a farmer said. “I was beginning to worry that my corn wouldn’t reach knee high by the Fourth of July, but this rain could make the difference.”
Even as a disgruntled gardener praised the rain for displacing the dust in her rain gauge, I cursed her godsend for creating the low visibility. My Jeep’s ten-year-old ventilation system couldn’t keep the windows from fogging up. I steered with one hand and used the other to swipe at the window, trying to keep a section of the windshield clear. It was only five miles into town, but when I passed the crumbling old gas station landmark, I saw that I’d only traveled a mile or so. At that rate, it would take me an hour to reach my destination. Because of the foggy conditions, though, I was afraid to push it any faster.
Concentrating on my multiple driving tasks, I barely felt the slight bump against the rear side of my vehicle. “Damn, someone’s trying to pass me.” I fought with the steering wheel to keep my car on the road.
The second bump got my attention. Something loomed out of the mist on my left and jolted my vehicle again, forcing me to move further to the right. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the shadow of a larger vehicle keeping pace with mine. It wasn’t trying to pass me. It was edging closer. He was probably having the same trouble seeing through the fog that I was. No! He’s doing it on purpose! With that thought barreling into my head, I heard the sickening sound of metal against metal. I’m being squeezed off the road. My Jeep tilted dangerously, as its right-side wheels left the pavement and slid onto the shoulder. I fought with the steering wheel and felt my heart leap into my throat. If I hadn’t been driving slowly, I would be plummeting down the embankment and into the river.
Because of the weather conditions, there was no way for me to identify the driver of the mystery vehicle. I couldn’t take my gaze off the road. As the vehicle veered toward mine for what I feared would be the final shove, I slammed on my brakes. The other vehicle accelerated down the road. Through the fog, I watched my tormenter’s taillights disappear around the curve ahead. Shaking, I pulled my vehicle back onto the pavement and drove the remaining miles into town, breathing rapidly and breaking into an unwanted sweat.
I pulled into the parking lot of the First Baptist Church and tried to get a hold of myself. I rested my head on the steering wheel and steeled myself to breathe deeply. Who’s trying to run me off the road? And why? I cursed the weather for the u
mpteenth time. If it hadn’t been so foggy, if conditions hadn’t required I keep my eyes on the road, I could have identified the vehicle and the person behind the wheel. Or at least have memorized the license number. I wasn’t stupid. The person had to be the same one who’d broken into the carriage house. The individual didn’t want me to do anymore snooping around . . . or to take any more photos.
Once more in control of my faculties, I cast a quick glance at the parking lot. It looked as if the whole town had turned out, regardless of the weather. I saw a horde of umbrellas spilling out of cars as their owners made their way into the church through the rain. I popped my own umbrella and joined them. Luckily, I spotted a vacancy in the last pew. After I had stashed my umbrella on the floor at my feet and settled back to listen to the organ music, I let my eyes roam over the backs of heads to see if I recognized anyone.
Willis Lansing slid onto the pew next to me, grinned and patted my arm. We sat, unspeaking, through the heartbreaking service. Then, as attendees followed the coffin down the aisle to the strains of “Amazing Grace,” I self-consciously bowed my head and focused on my folded hands, fearing I would attract stares as I had at the wedding.
Willis interrupted my self-absorption. “Are you going to the cemetery?”
“No, I’m not. Are you?”
“No. But if you have the time, I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee.”
“I’d like that,” I said. “Grizzly’s in fifteen minutes?”
Minutes later, I was removing my drenched raincoat and sliding into a booth. “What an incredibly sad occasion,” Willis said, as he set two mugs of coffee on the table. “I heard that you were the one who found Randy. What unfortunate timing.”
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