A Rendezvous to Die For

by Betty McMahon

  I scowled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Somebody nailed a shirt, of all things, to my gate.”

  “What kind of shirt?” I experienced a sinking feeling, knowing what the answer would be.

  “It was covered with dirt, so I couldn’t tell much about the shirt itself.” Marty held up what was formerly a white shirt. Not red. I felt a tingle along my forearm. Not my shirt, but the message it sent was clear anyway. Marty was still talking. “What bothered me most about this thing was the note tacked to it.”

  “A note?” I asked, swallowing hard.

  Marty nodded and looked genuinely puzzled. “With the envelope addressed to you.” He passed the envelope to me.

  I hoped my expression wouldn’t give me away. I wasn’t prepared to tell Marty how the shirt could be connected to me. I willed my voice not to quaver. “Did you . . . you know . . . tell the sheriff about the shirt?”

  “I certainly did,” he said, his jaw tightening. “They’re picking it up later this morning.”

  “For the time being, Marty, would you do me a big favor and not mention this note to the sheriff?”

  He didn’t answer right away, considering. “Is everything okay with you, gal?” He pointed to the envelope. “Is that something that puts you in some sort of danger?”

  “I’ll know after I open it.” My hands were visibly trembling, but I made no move to open the envelope in his presence.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll do that for you.”

  Again willing my face not to register my inner distress, I uttered a lame, “I-I hope they find the person responsible for the fire.” I walked purposefully into my house and collapsed onto the sofa, dangling the note between my thumb and index finger as if it would burn my skin. After stalling for a full minute, I finally slit open the envelope. One note-size piece of paper fluttered out. On it, written in large capital letters, I read: MEET ME IN MY OFFICE TUESDAY, 10:00 A.M., OR THE RED SHIRT GOES TO THE SHERIFF.

  It was signed by Guy Strothers.

  I’d been waiting for the red shirt to jump up and bite me and, now, I was getting my comeuppance. My chest tightened with the thought of another face-to-face confrontation with Strothers. Apparently, this was what he had wanted to “discuss” with me at the Roadhouse parking lot. He certainly wasn’t giving me any time to stew about his edict. To say that I was scared out of my mind was saying nothing at all. Even more terrifying, however, was the knowledge that I was on my own. I couldn’t enlist anyone’s help or advice, because I hadn’t told anyone about my visit to Strothers at the farmyard, in the middle of the night.

  * * *

  I dressed in a gray pantsuit, paired with an ivory-colored blouse—no red shirt for this meeting—and set out for Strothers’ office in downtown Colton Mills. In the longest five miles I’d ever driven, I thought I knew how a prisoner felt as he took his final walk to the executioner.

  “Come in!” Strothers barked, in response to my timid knock on his office door. He was seated behind a mammoth mahogany desk. “Pardon me if I don’t get up,” he said, in what I interpreted to be a murderous tone. His mammoth hands were twisted into fists on his desk. He nodded towards a leather chair in front of his desk. When I was seated, he asked, “Why do you think I asked you to come here today, Miss Cassidy?”

  “I’m not sure,” I answered, my stomach in knots. “Something about a red shirt.” I tried to maintain steady eye contact, to show him I was not intimidated. It took all the energy I could summon.

  He reached into his desk drawer and whipped out my dirty shirt. There was no mistaking that it was mine. Holding it up in front of him, he said, “I believe this is yours. You left it behind after following me to a farm house out in the country a couple nights ago.” His eyes blazed with anger.

  “What makes you think that’s my red shirt,” I asked, willing myself to speak evenly.

  “You’re well known for wearing red shirts, Miss Cassidy. Several people have told me that. It was found in the driveway of a farmhouse where my truck had been parked. It had been used to wipe dirt off the door of my vehicle.”

  I didn’t trust myself to respond, so I remained quiet.

  “I’m note interested in playing games with you.” He threw the shirt aside and placed his palms flat on the desk. “I want to know what the hell you were doing at that farm in the middle of the night!”

  If I had learned anything in the years since Mrs. A taught me the value of verbal bravado, it was that the best defense is a good offense. I followed my instincts and fought back. “You’re making some strong assumptions, Mr. Strothers. Dozens of people in this township wear red shirts. I have a couple questions of my own, since you seem so determined to scare me with strong-man tactics.” I scooted to the edge of my chair and glared at him with equal intensity. “Were you paying Eric Hartfield to write favorable things about you and your company?” The question spilled out of my mouth before I could stop myself. I wasn’t sure what he expected me to ask him, but that wasn’t it. It took a few seconds for the question to register in his mind. I thought he would erupt out of the chair and attack me for the second time, but he sat quietly gazing at me.

  “That is a very serious, very loaded question, Miss Cassidy.” Rubbing his hands together in front of him, he brought them to his face and tapped the fingers against his tightened lips. “Where on earth did you get that idea?”

  “I noticed that Eric’s articles abruptly changed from being quite adamantly critical about the Bridgewater Land Development Company to praising it, about a year ago.”

  “And from that observation you made a jump in logic to thinking there was a payoff involved? What a quaint conclusion.” Strothers chuckled and shook his head. “You couldn’t be more wrong.” He pushed himself away from his desk and strode around it to stand beside me. I thought he was about to attack me again, but he reached out to cup my chin in his hand. “Once Eric Hartfield had done his homework, he saw that my company was a benefit to the area. That’s when he started to support me.” He had adopted corporate-speak. “It’s that simple, my dear. There is no conspiracy here.” He patted my cheek and returned to his desk chair.

  I rubbed my cheek. “Then you and Eric were good friends?”

  “We were never good friends. We were mutually respectful professionals.”

  I was in pretty deep already and decided to go for broke. “Did you go to the Rendezvous to meet with Eric?”

  He opened his mouth and, at first, no sound emerged. Then he snapped, “What Rendezvous are you talking about?”

  “The Rendezvous where Eric was killed. Two weeks ago.”

  “I’ve never gone to one of those hokey things in my life,” he said, his voice icy. His eyes narrowed. “And I don’t like the sound of what you’re implying, Miss Cassidy.”

  “Your truck was parked at the Rendezvous on the day Eric was killed.”

  “And you, Miss Detective, are making another unbelievable insinuation to support your cockamamie speculations. Exactly how do you know my company truck was there? Did someone tell you that, or did you see it yourself?” His gaze bored into mine. “For the sake of argument, we’ll assume the truck was there.” He raised his voice and spoke slowly, emphasizing every word as though I were a dummy. “Did it never occur to you that my employees also drive my truck?”

  I pressed on. “Do you know who was driving it that day?”

  “If I did know—and I’m not saying I do—it’s none of your damn business who was driving my truck!”

  I willed my eyes not to waver. “It could become the sheriff’s business, if he inquires about who left your truck in the Rendezvous parking lot the same day Eric was killed.”

  “And who’s going to give the sheriff a reason to ask that question? You? Or have you already?”

  “I’ll keep that information to myself, Mr. Strothers,” I said, lowering my voice.

  “I’m beginning to get the picture here.” Strothers studied his fingernails. “You followed me
to the farmyard, because you have developed some outrageous theory that I’m connected to Eric Hartfield’s murder, in order to save your own neck. Is that it?” His fist banged on the desk. “What the hell were you trying to prove?”

  I flinched, but continued. “Did you try to run me off the road on the day of Randy Pearce’s funeral?”

  Strothers threw his hands into the air and stared at me, clearly dumbfounded. I could see him fight to keep his temper in check. His eyes were blazing. “You live a dangerous life for a small-town wedding photographer,” he said. “You’ve made some amazing accusations that I take very seriously. Where your suppositions come from is beyond my comprehension.”

  “I’m not— ”

  “Not another word! Hear me out!” The jaw muscles worked behind his tanned cheeks. “Obviously, you have decided to remain mum about why your shirt ended up in my driveway.” He reached for the red evidence. “That being the case, I have no choice but to deliver it to the sheriff. I doubt you will be sharing the contents of the note I sent you with him, as it will implicate you in whatever you were doing in that farmyard.”

  “But— ”

  “That’s all! You can go now.” He swiveled his chair away from me. “Close the door behind you.”

  I fled his office, breathing a sigh of relief to know I was still in one piece. If Strothers wasn’t an enemy of mine before, he was certainly one after my performance. What was I thinking, to ask him such loaded questions? By tipping my hand, I had worsened my own position. I dreaded what would happen if and when the shirt ended up in Shaw’s hands. How could I explain my stupidity in driving out to that farmhouse!

  I went back into my darkroom, turned on the safe light, and cracked open a roll of exposed film. I pulled the strip out of its last chemical bath and hung it up to dry. Too nervous to stay and work, I headed toward my second office.

  “Hey, Cassandra,” Roxy said, pulling out a paper cup. “Tall or extra tall today?”

  “Make it extra tall, iced, to go.” I was still shaking. “Better make that decaf today.”

  She placed the coffee on the counter. “I hear you had some trouble out at your house.”

  “How did you hear that?”

  “Well, we do live in a small town,” she said with an impish smile.

  “You’re right about that.”

  She leaned her forearms on the counter. “How’s Marty doing with all this?”

  “Marty?” Lately, I seemed to be getting all the sympathy of chopped liver. “Marty’s been out of town. It was my place that got hit.”

  “I meant to say, how was Marty’s trip?”

  “He didn’t say anything about his trip.” I sipped my coffee. “Should he have? I assumed he was taking or picking someone up with his helicopter.” She swiped the already clean counter with a cloth. Her mouth opened to speak, but didn’t. Curious, I prompted her. “Do you know where he went, Roxy?”

  “I’ve gotten to know Marty pretty well in the last couple of years,” she said, hedging and, apparently, debating whether to tell me more. “He’s a regular here, like yourself.”

  I nodded and sipped at my coffee.

  “Anyway,” she said, seeming to make up her mind to go on. “Do you know the story about his wife and son leaving him while he was in Viet Nam?”

  I nodded. “That had to be thirty-forty years ago.”

  “His boy would be middle-aged by now, but every so often Marty will get a lead about where his family members might be. If he can, he’ll follow up.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Is that what he was doing?”

  “Someone told him about meeting a guy—a pilot—in Kansas City, who reminded him of Marty. Apparently, Marty thought there was enough about this sighting to investigate.”

  “He told me the sheriff called him to come home after the house was fire-bombed.”

  “That probably means it was another dead end.” She sighed and turned away from me to wait on a new customer.

  I returned to my Jeep. It was an interesting story. Or, possibly, an elaborate cover-up.

  I stopped at the Burger Barn, picked up a hamburger to go with my coffee, and drove to the roadside park along the Oxbow. The river lapped gently against the bank and my mind drifted back to the conversation I’d just had with Roxy.

  Marty was an enigma. He’d dodged Viet Cong bullets and, now, he piloted a helicopter stateside for medical trips. A rough, tough guy, he wasn’t easily intimidated. It appeared, however, that Marty was still locked into his past, fixated on events that had occurred nearly forty years ago. What kind of person could not let go and move on? Had this tragic experience eaten at him so long that he’d lost perspective and finally taken his bitterness out on Eric? How about Randy and Jim? Or, did it have to do with the land development and hunting issues? I was no better at practicing psychology than at impersonating a detective.

  One thing for sure, my experience with Strothers had convinced me it was time to take steps to protect myself. Luckily, I had a date with Jack at the gun range.

  I noticed only one other shooter, who was stationed at the far end of the range when we arrived. I loaded my weapon as Jack had taught me, assumed the proper stance, and pulled the trigger.

  “Not bad,” Jack said, grinning. “You almost hit it that time!” I glared at him for pointing out my less-than-stellar attempts at drilling a human being in the head or chest. He took possession of the handgun to demonstrate what was wrong with my technique. Holding it with two hands, he showed me how to sight down the short barrel and slowly squeeze the trigger, not “pull” it as I had been doing. I followed his instructions, and after a half hour was hitting the target more often that I was missing it.

  While getting ready to load another round, I saw the shooter out of the corner of my eye, apparently finished and coming our way to reach the exit. I waited for him to pass by and then a double take. He caught my eye and turned his face abruptly away, striding more briskly through the exit. Not quickly enough. Not before I saw the red suspenders holding up his farmer jeans.

  “Cass, you’re not paying attention,” Jack complained.

  I grabbed hold of his shirtfront and started to babble, feeling my excitement rise. “Jack, I swear the man who just left the range is the guy who followed me in the park on Sunday.”

  “Can’t be,” he said dismissively. “That’s Ned Obregon. He’s been a farmer around here forever.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Out in the country somewhere. He’s a farmer, for cryin’ out loud.”

  “But where?”

  He threw up his hands. “I’ll find out for you. Practice squeezing the trigger, and I’ll be right back.” He left to talk with someone inside the building. He wasn’t gone long. “It’s just as I thought. That was Ned, all right. He lives out on Coyote Road.”

  “Jack, Coyote Road isn’t far from where I live.”

  “Living somewhere near you does not mean he’s going to follow you into the woods.”

  I hadn’t told Jack about my nocturnal visit to photograph Strothers’ vehicle, so he had no way of knowing I had another frame of reference. I was sure the man who had just left the range was the same man who had not only followed me, but who was in the farmhouse with Strothers. I fixed my gaze on his and spoke with conviction. “I can’t tell you how I know, Jack, but I’m confident that man works for Strothers. He has been following me, and he may be the one who threw the firebomb at my house.”

  “Cass, I think you’re wrong on this one.”

  “Humor me, Jack. Let’s follow him and see where he goes.”

  Jack sighed wearily, threw our shooting gear into his bag, and strode beside me out to his truck without further comment. Ned’s pickup was leaving the parking lot as we exited the store. Once in Jack’s truck, we followed it at a safe distance as it lumbered down the street and turned onto County Road 18. About a mile down the road, it turned into the parking lot of Leo’s Bar.

  “So much for that,” Jack said, h
is first words since voicing his objection to my conjectures. “He could be in there for the night.”

  “I’m going in,” I turned to him, my jaw set. “Are you coming with me?”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “And miss a chance to pick you up off the floor? No, I’m in.”

  Ned was sitting at the bar with his back to us. A couple of tattooed twenty-somethings were playing pool, noisily egging each other on and slurping Coors between turns. A couple sat at a table, watching a baseball game playing on the TV suspended from the ceiling. We ambled up to the bar and took a couple stools at the opposite end from where Ned sat. He was tearing strips off pull-tabs, trying to hit the house’s jackpot. From his irritable expression, he wasn’t doing well. We ordered a couple of Bud Lights and waited.

  When Ned had finished going through his stack of pull-tabs, he reached for his beer. When he lifted the bottle to his lips, his gaze fell on the two of us. He literally choked and began coughing, unable to catch his breath. When he finally got control of himself, he slammed the bottle onto the bar, threw the bartender a couple of bills, and bolted outside. The tires of his truck spun in the gravel, as he powered out of the parking lot.

  “I think we accomplished something,” I said, jumping off the barstool.

  “I agree,” Jack said. “You’ve got yourself a confirmed enemy.” He handed the bartender a $10 bill. “Keep the change,” he said. As we returned to his truck, he added. “You must be proud of yourself.”

  “No, I think I’ve seen the last of Ned following me. When a guy’s cover is blown, he’s useless, isn’t he? That’s what I read in the detective novels.”

  “I hope you’re right, Cass,” he said, sliding under the steering wheel. “I hope you’re right.”

  Chapter 22

  Wednesday—Week Three

  At 9:40 the next morning, I parked in the churchyard for another funeral service. Jim Tuttle’s. I’d have given anything not to attend and be “on display” as one of the people who had found him hanging in the woods. Hoping to appear as incognito as possible, I ditched my usual outfit of bright colors for a more conservative navy pantsuit and slipped on an oversized pair of dark sunglasses. I found my favorite spot in the next to the last pew and settled in for another sad service. Thankfully, most attendees paid little attention to me.