“Well, yes.” I hated to relive that dreadful night. “Unfortunate for me. Doubly unfortunate for poor Randy. How did you come to know him?”
Willis carefully measured a teaspoon of sugar and stirred it into his coffee. “He did some work for me in the past. A fine young man. I hope they solve the crime soon.”
Imitating Willis, I slowly stirred my coffee, although I hadn’t added anything to it. “What kind of work did he do for you?”
“Randy was a talented leather craftsman. I enlisted his help on several projects over the past few months.” He fastidiously dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “Switching to another unfortunate subject . . . has the sheriff made any progress on his investigation of the Rendezvous murder?”
“Not that I know,” I said, dipping one of Roxie’s chocolate biscottis into my coffee. “But if they don’t find the killer soon, I think I’m going to be the next victim.”
Willis’ gray eyebrows shot up in alarm. “What on earth does that mean?”
I told him about my darkroom break-in and my close call on the way to the funeral this morning. He shook his head and scowled. “I wish there were something I could do for you, Cassandra. If there is, please let me know.”
“The most you can do is keep an ear to the ground,” I said, standing and tidying up the table. “If you hear anything that might help, I’d appreciate your letting me know.”
“Most assuredly,” he said, rising to help me with my raincoat.
As I bused our coffee mugs, another customer stomped into the cafe and loudly ordered a tall house blend before he ever approached the counter. I wasn’t as fast as Willis, who pushed ahead of me and plunged into the rain outside. As I started to pass the new customer, he turned toward me. I recognized his face from news articles I’d recently Googled. Guy Strothers. Talk about the devil!
He was a hulking six-foot-three at least. I felt puny and unsubstantial next to him. His presence was so commanding, it seemed to take up the whole room in the little coffee shop. His yellow Eddie Bauer-type raincoat was shedding water like a seal and he pulled out a cloth handkerchief to wipe his face, running it over his carefully styled and blow-dried hair. “You’re Cassandra Cassidy, aren’t you?” His voice was loud to the point of almost shouting.
How does he know who I am? My heart was hammering, but I sputtered out a reply. “Yes, I’m . . uh-huh. I mean, yes, I am she. That person. Cassandra.” Something to that effect.
“I’m Guy Strothers,” he said, his voice still booming. “Bridgewater Land Development Company.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, sticking out my hand. He ignored it. I jammed it into the pocket of my black funereal dress slacks.
“I want to talk to you.” Without waiting for a reply, he took my elbow and guided me to the back of the coffee shop. He pulled out a chair for me and practically pushed me onto it. Seating himself across from me, he folded his arms on the table and leaned toward me. “I’ve seen some of your photographs. You must be pretty close to those people, to get so many pictures of them.”
“Those people? What are you talking about?” I tried to keep my voice from shaking. His loud voice unnerved me.
“You know damn well what I’m talking about.” He almost spit out the words. “Your Indian friends.”
“I’ve gotten to know some of the local Indians,” I said, curious about where he was heading.
“They’re nice pictures. Very nice.” He leaned back in the booth, his long legs stretched out into the room. He contemplated his well-manicured fingernails for such a long time, I started to get up to leave. He placed his hand on my arm, pinning me in place. His lips were tight and his eyes blazed. “And you live out by Madigan?”
I glanced fleetingly around the coffee shop for allies, in case I needed help. We were the only customers. “What does one of these things have to do with the other?” I rubbed my arm where he had gripped it.
“Somebody fed Madigan information that is hurting my business. I’d just like to know who it was.” He had dropped his belligerent tone.
“I guess I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do know.” He paused, peering at me over tented fingers. “And I could make it worth your while to discuss it sometime.” He flashed a toothy smile and tossed a business card on the table. “If you want to talk about it further, call me.” He rose without even looking at me and stalked out of Grizzly’s and back into the rain.
I remained in the booth for another ten minutes racking my brain. Indians. Marty. Something connecting them with me to Strothers. What on earth? All I could muster up was that maybe Strothers believed I had gotten information from an Indian friend and told Marty about the illegally dumped materials on the reservation. It was farfetched and a stretch of the imagination, but with all the publicity in the papers about my finding both Eric and Randy, I couldn’t fault Strothers for thinking I was an important instigator of doom.
I watched through the window as Strothers climbed into a dark-colored SUV, backed out of his parking space, and sped away. Then I had a more sinister thought. Was he the one who had tried to run me off the road, or was it just a coincidence that he showed up at Grizzly’s when he did? Not for the first time, I rued the day I’d accepted the Rendezvous job. Attending that one event had initiated a series of others: I had found two murder victims and, within the week following, my darkroom had been trashed, my photographs stolen, and my vehicle had been purposely pushed off the road. Now, Strothers’ comments had the effect of a punch in the stomach. Instead of speaking up for myself, I’d acted like I was a wilting, week-old greenhouse rose. It was difficult enough for me to stand up to this kind of pressure from Shaw, but now Strothers, too?
As I climbed back into my Jeep, I conducted a pity-party of one. I’d gotten into this situation simply by taking pictures and befriending a few local Indians. I wanted my life back. I drove straight to Anna’s.
Stephanie, Anna’s summer sales clerk, was at the counter. Pert, petite Stephanie fit into Anna’s tiny originals, and she always wore one of them to show off the merchandise. Today, her Barbie-like figure was decked out in the lacy bustier Anna had tried to interest me in buying, paired with a pair of tight blue jeans. Whenever I saw Stephanie, I felt I was hopelessly sliding into middle age.
“Hi, Cassandra,” she chirped, fussing with a garment she was arranging on a hanger. “If you’re looking for Anna, she’s back in her office.” She gestured with her head toward the back of the store.
Anna saw me coming through her glass office door and motioned me inside. She peered at me over her half glasses. “You’re looking uncharacteristically overwhelmed, Cassandra. Is this investigation getting to you?”
“Nope.” I sank into an easy chair. “This is how I look when someone is trying to kill me.”
“Kill you?” She stared at me, her eyes wide. “My dear, what are you talking about?” After I had described my early-morning encounter on the road and my conversation with Guy Strothers, her tone of voice changed. “I know Strothers. He’s a dangerous man.”
I sat straighter. “How do you know about Strothers?”
“I heard about him when I lived in Chicago.”
“If he lives in Chicago, what’s he doing around here?”
Anna shuffled through some papers of her desk and leaned closer to me. “Things weren’t going well for him there. His wife left him in a very messy divorce that was played out in the Chicago papers.” She tapped a pen on the desk and her voice rose. “But, he deserved to be divorced. He brutalized her both physically and psychologically. She was lucky to be rid of him.” She crossed the room to her bookcase, straightened a couple volumes, and then turned to lean her back against the shelves. “He moved to Colton Mills to work on the Minnesota land development.”
I pushed forward to the edge of my chair. “He lives here?” I asked, stunned by the revelation. “I could be running into this character on a daily basis?”
Anna rush
ed over to me and knelt in front of my chair. “I don’t want to scare you, dear, but he has a reputation of being very nasty to people who get in his way.”
“But . . . I didn’t do anything!” I pounded the arm of the upholstered chair. “I didn’t say anything to anyone about him either.” I threw up my hands. “Where on earth did he get the idea that I said something to Marty that put his company in hot water? Anna, this is crazy!”
“Did you go to the police about the road incident?”
I shook my head. “I don’t want the police involved in anything else where I am concerned. I have no proof that someone tried to run me off the road, and, unfortunately, my old Jeep has so many scratches and dents already, they probably couldn’t tell if any of them were caused today. And, I certainly don’t want to report anything about my conversation with Strothers. You can’t arrest a guy for an imagined threat.”
Anna returned to her desk and started to thumb through her calendar. “It may look dismal now, Cassandra, but this will all play out for the best. You’ll see.” She jabbed her finger on the calendar. “You’ve got some breathing room. Strothers will be in Chicago for next week’s land-developer’s conference. He’s the keynote speaker. I would think he’d be there for at least a few days.”
“Small comfort,” I said. “But I’ll take any relief I can get.”
Chapter 14
Wednesday—Week Two
Whenever my cell phone rang, it was a good chance Shaw was on the line. He was still playing the odds that the one who found the body was quite likely the one who committed the crime Whenever he called—which was often—I always referred him to Lawton Sanders. Today, I wanted him to call.
He didn’t disappoint me. At 9:00 sharp, the phone rang. “Miss Cassidy,” Shaw said, “I’ve been going over my notes and would like you to clarify something for me.”
I cradled the phone on my shoulder while I pulled on my boots. “I’m listening.”
“When you approached the sweat lodge, a week ago Sunday, was the flap of the tent totally closed or hanging partly open?”
“You know I won’t comment on that, sir,” I said. “You’ll have to call my attorney.”
“It would be so much easier if you would just answer my questions.”
“Deputy, you know I’d be foolish to do that.”
“If you have nothing to hide, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
I sighed, exasperated that we had to keep having these no-win conversations over and over again. “Would you like to know what happened to me yesterday?”
“Is it something that’s relevant to this investigation?”
“It could be,” I said. I paused for more dramatic effect. “Someone tried to run me off the road on my way to Randy’s funeral, Deputy.”
“Is that right? What happened?” He listened while I described the incident. “Did you report the incident to the police?”
“No, sir,” I said, shrugging into my shirt and trying to button it one-handed. “But I hope you’ll take it into consideration while investigating Eric’s murder. A break-in at my house. Someone trying to run me off the road. They’ve got to be connected somehow. Don’t you think?”
“Did anyone else witness this road incident?”
“I don’t know. I doubt it, sir.”
“I see,” Shaw said.
I knew he was thinking his favorite suspect was making up incidents to get herself off the hook. To his warped way of thinking, it probably strengthened his case against me. “It happened, whether anyone else saw it or not.” I know I sounded defensive, but I felt the urge to speak up for myself. “And remember, we had a fierce rainstorm that morning. There was thick fog and visibility was difficult. That’s why I can’t identify the driver of the dark car and why I couldn’t get the license plate number.”
When Shaw finally ended our conversation, my message light was blinking. It was Jack. I called him back and told him about the latest developments. He listened carefully, then ended the conversation. I didn’t hear from him again until that afternoon. “Meet me at the coffee shop in a half hour,” he said. “I have some news that might cheer you up.”
Jack’s pickup was already in the parking lot when I pulled beside it. He had snagged a table in the rear of the coffee shop. I got a mug of my favorite brew and joined him. “This better be good.” I shot him a stern look. “I need some good news this week.”
“Okay, babe. How’s this for openers?” He flipped open a notebook, circled something on the page, turned it toward me, and pointed to what he had circled.
“What’s that?” I asked.
He grinned triumphantly. “I think Eric Hartfield was being paid off by Strothers.” Wider grin.
I eyed him skeptically. “Where did you get an idea like that?”
“I have my ways.”
“Your ways. C’mon, spit it out. What ways?”
He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “This is strictly between us, right?”
I hesitated before answering, folding and refolding my napkin. “Did you do something illegal? Could you be arrested?”
“If I got caught, maybe. Which I didn’t. Now, do you want to hear?”
“Yes,” I said, sighing. “I want to hear.”
He took a sip of coffee, peering at me over his cup. “I paid Strothers a visit.”
I nearly spit out my coffee. “Good grief,” I sputtered. “On what grounds? What did he say?”
He was grinning again. Smugly, I might add. “He didn’t say anything. Because . . . he didn’t seem to be home.” I dropped my head onto my chest, closed my eyes, and drummed my fingers on the table. After counting to ten, I raised my eyebrows. Jack continued. “His office was as clean and orderly as a dairy farm system, like he compulsively puts everything in place. I flipped through some of his file drawers. They held mostly financial folders. I couldn’t understand the titles, so I kept looking.”
“And . . . ?”
“Well, he had a lock on his desk drawers. Fortunately, I was able to trigger them open without much effort. That’s where I hit the jackpot.” He tapped his notebook.
Propping my elbows on the table, I massaged the scar on my neck. “What did you find?”
Jack motioned for me to lean closer to him so that he could whisper his response. “I found a ledger of some sort with figures written next to dates. Interesting, because it wasn’t computer-generated like most of his financial stuff. And . . . I found some envelopes behind the ledger. Inside each one was a handwritten note, listing different amounts. Each amount and each address was different. It totaled more than $250,000 over a period of eighteen months, in amounts ranging from $10,000 to $40,000.”
“Wow.” I whistled and glanced hastily around the coffee shop. No one was sitting within hearing of us. “Was one of the envelopes addressed to Eric? Is that how you connected the dots?”
Jack sipped at his, by now, cold coffee and made a face. “Actually, that involved a little more sleuthing.” He patted his notebook again. “The first thing I noticed was that the letters ‘e.h.’ signed every one of those notes. I went back to the ledger and found the same letters written alongside several figures and some addresses. In another drawer, Strothers had a folder containing a stack of newspaper articles separated via paper clips into two sets. Guess who had written every single one of them, Cass? Eric Hartfield. I skimmed through them and found that one set with earlier dates was very critical of Strothers and his business dealings.”
Jack paused to sip at his cold coffee again. I knew he was doing it purposely, but I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of seeing me squirm. “In the second set of articles, which were dated about a year and a half ago to recently, Hartfield changed his tune and began singing Bridgewater Development’s praises.”
I let the information sink in and stew a bit. I wanted to believe it was something important that would get me off the list of murder suspects, but I didn’t want to have my hopes raised needlessly. “So, you’re saying the
evidence indicates that Eric was accepting bribe money from Strothers to write favorable articles about his development company. That doesn’t prove anything, Jack.”
He closed the notebook and tucked it under his arm. “Maybe it’s not a perfect smoking gun, Cass, but it sure smells like Strothers was paying Hartfield to print good things about him.”
“Maybe,” I conceded. “You’re thinking Strothers was getting tired of paying him off . . . or maybe couldn’t afford the bribery game anymore. Eric may have threatened to expose him and Strothers killed him.”
“Right. Now you’re starting to think like a detective. Makes more sense than it does to think you killed anyone, when you had absolutely no motive.”
“Unfortunately, my dear Jack, because of the way you gathered the information, I can’t share it with the deputy sheriff. And . . . how would Strothers have gotten a hold of Marty’s ‘hawk? And . . . how would he know about the sweat lodge? It’s not like he’s lived here all his life.” I’d have to find another way.
* * *
Jack’s research about Strothers, whether true or not, added one more arrow to my growing quiver of suspects. However, I was more excited by a call from Willis Lansing when I got back to the carriage house. “I’ll be at Marty’s house this afternoon,” he said on my answering machine. “Maybe you’d like to find a way to be there, too?”
I’d been trying to finagle a way to get into Marty’s house for weeks, and now I had additional reasons to show up on his property. One, to see if his vehicle had any red paint on it. Two, to find out if Strothers had ever threatened him, after he’d tried to vote down his development plan. Three, to find out exactly how much he hated Eric for his role in writing about the development issues he adamantly opposed. Four, to find out what he thought of Randy. My ruse, for my landlord’s benefit, was to deliver my rent in person. I hadn’t seen or talked with him since the Rendezvous. Even though the aspect of finally meeting with him was exciting, my palms were already sweating. In the back of my mind was the thought I could very well be walking into the enemy’s camp.
A Rendezvous to Die For Page 10