A Rendezvous to Die For

by Betty McMahon

  “You don’t have to answer that,” he said gently. “I don’t talk about my family much either.”

  “Does . . . does your family live close by?” I asked, relieved to be off the hook. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them visiting.”

  “As far as I know, they don’t live nearby,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to discover for forty years. If they just took off . . . or if something terrible happened to them, well, it’s a living hell not knowing.”

  “Forty years is a long time.”

  “Sounds crazy,” he said. “But when a part of you is taken away, without your knowing why, it leaves a scar.”

  My hand involuntarily flew up to stroke the scar on my neck. “I can only imagine.”

  * * *

  After taking the plunge with Marty, I was convinced the best way to get information was simply to throw myself into the enemy camp. Since it was only 1:15, I decided to visit Jack, the newest on my “questionable friends” list. He didn’t know I knew about Eric. I wanted to see his reaction to the person in the mysterious parking-lot photo. Glad I had made several copies while I was at it, I hopped into my Jeep and drove over to the stables.

  Jack was astride a loping horse on the right side of the arena. When he reached the far end, he turned the horse toward the center. Orange construction-zone cones were positioned in a straight line at about ten-foot intervals. As I watched, Jack dropped the reins in front of him and urged the animal into a trot. Without any obvious guidance, the horse maintained its gait, weaving in and out of the cones until it came to a stop in front of the gate. The guy knew how to handle a horse. I applauded as he dismounted.

  He came over and casually threw his arm across my shoulders. “Hey, Cass. Long time no see. What’s our pretty detective turned up now?”

  I shrank away from his touch and held out one of the folders of photos in front of me. “I’m trying to identify the person in this photo, Jack. Willis Lansing and Marty are looking at it, too.” I handed him the folder.

  “Where’d you take the photo?”

  I described the circumstances to him. “The authorities don’t know this photo exists, Jack, so be careful who sees it. Think you’ll have time to look it over in the next couple days?”

  “Sure, no problem.” He tucked the folder under his arm. “By the way, Virgil came by this morning to pay Midnight’s board.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “For a few minutes. I thought he should know that Strothers was here asking about him the other day.”

  “Was he surprised?”

  “He said he didn’t know Strothers was in the area, that he thought he’d gotten beyond his reach. He thanked me profusely for letting him know.”

  I frowned. “Funny he hadn’t read about Strothers in the newspaper.”

  “Guess he’s not a newspaper reader. At least now that he’s informed, he can watch his back.”

  “Good thing you talked to him. Maybe we can keep one person out of Strothers’ clutches.”

  Jack eased down on his haunches to stroke a striped cat. “Virgil would be a sitting duck for someone like Strothers.” He gazed up at me. “I’ll do all I can to help you.”

  “Did you tell him I’d like to buy his horse?” I bit my lower lip.

  “Yes, and he didn’t give me a forceful ‘no.’ Just said he’d think about it. Maybe he’s softening.”

  “I can only hope.” With that, I pulled a handful of carrots out of my pocket and went to see Midnight. Anticipating treats, he trotted over. I led him into the barn, secured him across the aisle, brushed him, saddled up, and headed out on the trail. We rode quietly through the woods, and then he ran flat out on a straightaway quarter-mile stretch of field. It was invigorating. As I reached down to pat his mane, I realized I was thinking more and more of him as “my” Midnight. After only one short month, I couldn’t imagine a future without him.

  On my way back to the carriage house only thirty minutes later, I thought about the four people who had seen copies of the parking-lot photos—Anna, Willis, Marty and now Jack. One more person might be able to help me. Frank Kyopa. He was in town, attending a commission meeting. I made a U-turn and headed towards town, staking myself in a conspicuous spot outside the City Hall meeting room. Hopefully, the commission would take a break. I didn’t have to wait long. Ten minutes later, they emerged, chatting among themselves. I caught Frank’s eye and motioned him over. “Could I have a couple minutes of your time?” I asked, brandishing the last folder of photos. “I have something I’d like to run by you.”

  We went back into the meeting room and I spread the pictures out on the conference table. “I snapped these pictures when I left the Rendezvous to return to the parking lot for some new camera batteries,” I explained. “As it happens, that was about the same time Eric was murdered. It probably means nothing, but I’d sure like to know who is emerging from the woods in this photo. Does anything look familiar to you?”

  Frank selected one of the close-ups and then another, studying them one by one. “Very, very interesting, Cassandra. This could be the photograph of the murderer. Too bad the images aren’t clearer.”

  “I know. I was snapping randomly, trying to fill up my CF card.”

  “I can’t identify the person.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen boots like that somewhere, though.”

  “I’m figuring they’re one of a kind,” I said. “Would someone on the rez make boots with that design?”

  “Never. Those boots were made for people playing at being an Indian, not for Indians.” “Like a reenactor?”

  “Yes, most likely a reenactor.”

  “You’re positive they’re not Ojibwe.”

  “I can say with confidence they’re not made by anyone around here. You’ll find the maker traveling the Rendezvous circuit.” He handed the folder back to me, but I waved it away.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon grocery shopping, picking up a few things at the cleaners, making a stop at the drugstore and watching some late-night television. Life goes on, even if that life is in danger of being incarcerated with a “lifetime” sentence of murder in the first degree.

  Chapter 24

  Friday—Week Three

  Satisfied that I had taken several positive steps toward clearing my name, I put the photo riddle out of my mind and focused on my preparations for three upcoming weddings.

  My first meeting was with a wedding party at the old flourmill that gave Colton Mills its name. I’d found the mill area difficult to light and set up, but it always produced some striking photos. Situated on the Oxbow River, its water wheel was once again operational, thanks to historical preservation efforts in the 1980s. The two-story, wooden structure was situated at the bottom of a steep hill that was accessed by a winding gravel road that allowed vehicles to descend gradually into the valley.

  Tall pines flanked the road, lending an air of mystery to the descent, and they accentuated the dramatic sight when you emerged into the mill clearing. The city had taken advantage of the steep slope in front of the mill and built amphitheater seating, with about twenty rows marching up the hill in front of a stage that complemented the look of the old building. It had become a popular venue for musical groups, weddings, and other events.

  I was winding up the nine o’clock meeting, when Shannon, the bride-to-be, remembered a key part of the ceremony that had slipped her mind in the bustle of activity. “How could I have forgotten,” she said, pressing her hand to her chest. “We have to leave space for a portrait of my best friend. She was going to be my maid of honor, but she was killed in a car crash.” I murmured something sympathetic in response. “I couldn’t bear to go on with my wedding without having Kathleen in it somehow,” she said. “Could you suggest an appropriate place for the picture . . . one that will ensure she is an integral part of the ceremony?”

  I made a few suggestions. “What is your friend’s name?” I asked. “I’d like to add it to my layout sheet.”


  “Kathleen Dewitt.”

  I started to write the name, when, without warning, it clicked on some other memory in my brain. “Was . . . was your friend in an accident a few miles outside Colton Mills last year?”

  Shannon nodded. “Yes. Her boyfriend was driving and lost control of the car on the ice. I miss her so much.”

  My heart had leaped into my throat and I cleared it several times. “Did . . . do you know if Kathleen had a horse?”

  “Why, yes,” she said. “Midnight. She loved that horse.”

  As I did. “I don’t suppose you know Kathleen’s father?” I held my breath.

  “Not really.” Shannon stopped to think. “She didn’t talk about him much. I do know his name is Virgil.”

  I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice as I asked, “Where did Kathleen live?”

  “Right here in Colton Mills. She had an apartment on Eighth Street.”

  “She didn’t live with her father?”

  “Oh, no,” Shannon said. “He lived somewhere in Wisconsin. Madison, I think. That’s why I didn’t know him very well.”

  “Where did Kathleen live on Eighth Street? Do you—”

  My question was cut off by one of her bridesmaids. “C’mon Shannon,” she said, pulling the bride-to-be’s arm. “Let’s go. We’re late, big time.”

  “Sorry, Cassandra. We’ll talk again sometime.”

  Before I could utter another word, they dashed off to her car.

  As I drove toward town, I couldn’t get Shannon’s conversation out of my mind. Virgil was an interesting mystery man. He had battled Strothers and won. At least for now. I wished I could locate him . . . to ask him questions about Strothers, but mostly to see if he would consider selling Midnight to me. Feeling more hopeful, I was eager to use what little information Shannon had given me about Kathleen. Maybe, if I were lucky, someone could lead me to her father

  On an impulse, I turned off Main Street onto Eighth. A short street, only a couple of blocks long, it retained its postcard-perfect, small-town charm despite its proximity to the center of town. Most of the apartment buildings in Colton Mills were in newer sections of the city, but there were still a few apartments on Eighth that had been carved out of the old, larger homes. I parked my Jeep and started to walk. I estimated there were about six houses where Kathleen Dewitt may have lived. They were all well-kept, restored Victorian-era homes, set back from the street behind century-old trees and shrubs. The leafy oaks and elms cast cool shadows on the brick sidewalk.

  I turned into the driveway of the first house and strode up to the entrance under a grand porte-cochere that had once sheltered guests leaving their carriages to enter the house. Ascending the six broad steps, I entered the foyer where tenants’ mailboxes had been retrofitted into the woodwork. I skimmed the names, not really expecting to find Kathleen’s name after all this time. I pressed the button labeled manager.

  A buzzer sounded and I opened the great oak door, which admitted me to the inside of the house. I faced a wide wooden staircase, winding its way to the second floor. A thin, stooped woman, who looked like she may have come with the original house, shuffled out from an office to the right. “May I help you?” she asked in a wavering voice, peering up at me through incredibly thick eyeglass lenses.

  “Could you tell me if you had a tenant by the name of Kathleen Dewitt a year or so ago?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know,” she said. Then in a burst of authority that belied her frail appearance, she continued, “And I couldn’t tell you, even if I did know. That is, unless you’re law enforcement. You’re not law enforcement, are you?”

  For a wild moment, I considered handing her one of my ID cards. Maybe a Visa card would do, judging by her nearsightedness. But I thought better of it, thanked her, and left.

  I didn’t fare any better at the next two homes. Then, at the fourth, one of the names on the mailboxes caught my attention. K. Dewitt. It was a long shot that Kathleen’s name would still be on the box after a year. Dewitt was not a particularly unusual name, and the “K” could stand for Kenneth, or Karen, or Kevin. I hung around the foyer, hoping a tenant would enter the building and shed some light on the occupant of Apartment 206. When no one came, after about fifteen minutes, I made a note of the address and left for Anna’s shop.

  Anna bustled happily toward me. “Cassandra, I didn’t tell you, but I sent a picture of the boots to Hugo, my contact in New York. He thinks he can help you! He used his sophisticated equipment to enlarge the part of the photo showing the boots and said he was able to get a fair resolution, much better than you had. He agrees that they were custom made. He’s never seen the type of beadwork down the side of the boot. And . . . .” She clasped her beringed hands in front of her and leaned towards me. “And he’s going to check around with his contacts to see if they can find the craftsman who made them.” Disappointment must have shown in my face. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s great news, Anna,” I said, although I’d have preferred to have a name attached to the owner of the boots. “Any idea how long it will take to hear from his contacts?”

  She pursed her lips. “No, he didn’t say. He won’t dawdle, though. I stressed that the matter was extremely urgent. He owes me for some research I did for him last year, and I’m one of his best customers, so that will help, too.”

  “Anna, I really appreciate what you’re doing.” I hugged her. “Sorry that I want it done yesterday.” Anna was one friend who didn’t have any connection to Eric. I could trust her. She had my best interests at heart. Nevertheless, I left the shop with a feeling of dread, wondering when the next shoe would drop.

  * * *

  I had almost forgotten about the Prairie River Band Powwow, which is held every year. It was a small one, as far as powwows go, but important to the participants. As the official photographer, I had to attend, even though my interest and enthusiasm were at an all-time low.

  I left Anna’s shop around 12:30, famished and hoping to find something to eat at the powwow. I arrived at the fairgrounds, cameras in tow, in time to photograph the Women’s Jingle Dance. The rhythmic noise created by rows of now mostly artificial, store-bought bird bones, deer hooves, or jingly metal pieces lifted my spirits, and I was soon positioning myself to photograph the dancers as they demonstrated their graceful use of fans and other ceremonial regalia.

  At the end of the event, they swarmed around me, wanting to pose for individual photos. The rest of the day progressed much in the same pattern, as I took pictures of women gracefully performing in their colorful fancy shawls. The drums beat out rhythms for the men’s grass and fancy dances and I snapped away, filling my camera bag with several CF cards full of images.

  At about half-past seven, I finally pulled away from the fairgrounds. Reflecting on the status of dinner makings in my newly stocked refrigerator and my level of energy to make anything from them, I decided to indulge in fast food. I pulled into the local drive-in and ordered a cheeseburger and fries, making a mental note to balance the caloric overload with equivalent miles on my treadmill. I relaxed against the seat and drove through the takeout line.

  As I turned the corner behind a line of about a half-dozen cars, the houses on Eighth Street came into view. Munching my burger, I drove slowly by the house to see if I could learn anything. After driving around the block a couple of times and down the alley in back of the house, I snagged a parking place in the next block. I wiped away the last remnants of French fry salt with a napkin, slurped the last of my Diet Coke, grabbed a clipboard from the back seat to use as a prop, and sauntered back to number 1310. It was still fairly early in the evening, and I hoped some tenants would be out and about.

  I climbed the stairs and walked into the entryway. This time, I didn’t have long to wait. A thirtyish man, just coming in from a run, huffed up the stairs and took out his house key. He glanced over at me, where I was leaning against the wall, my clipboard poised for action. “Are you taking a survey or som
ething?”

  “Kind of,” I said. “I’m looking for a new apartment and don’t want to make the same mistakes I’ve run into in other apartments.” Darn, I was getting good at deception.

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, loud music, people arguing, that kind of thing.”

  “This is a pretty quiet building.”

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “Only a couple of months.”

  “Do vacancies come up very often?”

  “I haven’t seen any vacancy since I moved in, and I waited for this one for about six months.” He inserted a key into his mailbox.

  “Do you know everyone in the building?”

  “Almost everyone.” He stuffed a number of envelopes into his shirt pocket.

  “What would you say is the age range?” I pretended to make notes on my clipboard.

  “Most are about my age.”

  “I noticed on the mailbox that there are some singles in the building,” I said.

  He glanced at the names on the mailboxes. “Out of ten apartments, I’d say eight are married couples. Well, I’m not sure about one of them, because I don’t know who lives there.”

  Aha! “How could that be in a building with as few apartments as this?”

  “Well …”

  I peered at him questioningly.

  “Well, I don’t see anyone coming or going from one of the apartments, but, sometimes, late at night, I hear music.”

  “Yikes!” I said, feigning alarm. “You don’t think the house is haunted, do you?”

  He laughed. “I don’t believe in ghosts.” He was inserting his key in the door, when he turned to me again. “I’m probably reacting to the fact that the apartment was rented to a woman who died, and her name is still on the mailbox. Probably watching too many TV mysteries.” He glanced at my notes. “This is a great building. Don’t let that affect your opinion of the place.”

  Not at all, I thought, congratulating myself for my persistence.

  When I left the house, streetlights were already lighting the block. I stood on the sidewalk, peering up at the second floor. No lights burned in number 206. I strolled to my vehicle, plotting the next move in my “save Cassandra” strategy.