Next to Old Tom a man stood stock still, staring at me. I stared back. The man was all in black—leather jacket, gloves, cargo pants, high-topped boots—and he could have been a lost hiker except for that fact that he was also wearing a black ski mask. I thought of the old Colt Python revolver—a hand-me-down from my father—that I kept at my house, and I wished I had it with me as the proverbial chill ran down my spine. Now what? It didn’t take long to find out. The man in black gave a kind of waving salute with his right hand, as though we were friends who’d just spotted each other at a party, and then turned and ran.
“Hey, you, stop!” I shouted.
I was in my usual suit-and-tie uniform, with loafers as footwear, which meant I was hardly prepared for bushwhacking through the woods. Still, I was ready to give it a try until I heard footsteps coming up behind me. I turned around and there was Cassandra, in designer jeans and powder blue sneakers and a gray cashmere sweater worth half a week of my salary. A small leather bag was tucked under her shoulder. She was her very own fashion show in the woods. Her ensemble also included a snub-nosed, silver-barreled revolver, presumably the same one I’d seen earlier in her purse. She was pointing it straight at me.
“You with him?” she asked, glancing over at the man in black, who was rapidly disappearing into the woods. Her hand was shaking. The gun shook with it. She was scared. So was I. I was also angry.
“What the hell are you talking about? Why would I be with whoever that is? I’m out here looking for you because I thought you might be in trouble. Didn’t you hear me shouting? And would you please lower that gun. I’d really prefer not to get shot today.”
“Sorry,” she said, putting the revolver in her bag. “Just a precaution. I heard you calling my name but I wasn’t sure it was you.”
“Really? I thought you’d be familiar with my voice by now. What about the gunshot? Did that guy threaten you?”
“I’m not sure. I saw him and he started coming toward me in way I didn’t like. So I shot in the air just to let him know he’d better not fuck with me. And now here you are and the guy’s waving at you like he knows you. What am I supposed to think?”
“He was just being an asshole. I have no idea who he is, but I doubt we could catch him now and find out. Jesus, Cassandra, I’m just glad you’re all right. This could have ended very badly. I’ve already called nine-one-one and deputies are on the way. I’d really like to know what you were doing out here by yourself.”
“I was looking for something.”
“What?”
“Let’s just say I received information that I might find something of interest here.”
Could she be any less revealing, or more exasperating? “Come on, cut the crap,” I said. “You came out here with a gun in your pocket and you won’t tell me why. You know you’re still shaking, don’t you? What’s going on?”
Cassandra took a deep breath, drawing in the air as fiercely as though it was an intoxicating chemical about to send her off on a wonderful trip. She said, “Let’s talk later, okay? I’ve got to sort everything out.”
Cassandra’s phone sounded from one of her jeans pockets. She got it out and looked at the screen.
“A message from a friend?” I asked.
“Shit,” she said. “This is getting really weird. Like I said, just give me some time and we’ll talk.”
I began to hear faint sirens. Deputies were on their way.
“Have it your way,” I said. “Maybe it doesn’t matter to you, but I’m truly relieved you’re safe. And please don’t do anything this stupid again. I think that guy was stalking you.”
“Yeah, you may be right. I’m just not sure. But I appreciate that you came looking for me.”
It was an apology, sort of, but I still didn’t think Cassandra was being totally honest with me. As we started walking back to the parking lot, I glanced over at Big Tom, where a flash of white caught my eye. I moved a few steps down the trail for a better view. The white appeared to be a sheet of paper attached to the tree’s massive trunk. I knew what it had to be.
“I think we just missed the Serenader,” I said.
I didn’t want to be the one who found the message posted on Big Tom, and Cassandra didn’t either, so we went straight back to the lot. The sirens grew much louder. Then a white Ford pickup with flashers sped into the lot, closely followed by two squads. The pickup stopped next to us and Arne stepped out, dressed in a corduroy jacket and slacks and a white Stetson hat. I guess it was his Texas Ranger look.
“Well, it seems you’re safe after all, Miss Ellis,” he said. “Now what’s all this about? The counselor here seems to think you were in some sort of trouble. Is that right?”
“There was no trouble,” Cassandra said to my surprise. “Mr. Zweifel was mistaken.”
Cassandra, it seemed, was still playing games. I was about to chime in but Arne cut me off. He only wanted to talk to my less-than-truthful companion.
“I gather you went out here for a stroll through the pines,” he said. “Not the best day for it, I have to say. The thing is, you don’t look like the woodsy type. What were you doing here?”
Cassandra said, “And just what does the ‘woodsy type’ look like, sheriff? Not Black, I imagine.”
“Woodsy types come in all colors, and they wear hiking clothes and boots and warm jackets, none of which you seem to have. There’s also the matter of a gunshot Mr. Zweifel here claims to have heard. Can you tell me anything about that?”
I thought Cassandra would deny she had a weapon but she didn’t. “I fired a shot by accident. It was very careless of me. I was just putting the gun in my bag when it happened.”
She handed the bag to Arne and said, “See for yourself.”
“Well, that’s nice to know,” Arne said as he dug into the bag and pulled out a short-barreled revolver.
“I have a permit to carry, in case you’re interested,” Cassandra said.
“I’m sure you do,” Arne, said, breaking open the cylinder and inspecting the revolver. “My oh my, a Ladysmith three-fifty-seven magnum. A lot of gun in a small package. Hope you weren’t doing some target practice out here. It’s illegal, you know, to discharge a firearm in our county parks.”
Cassandra said, “As I told you, it was an accident. Beyond that, all I can tell you is that I went out for a walk today. That is not illegal. I carry a duly-licensed firearm for personal protection. That is not illegal either. I have nothing else to say at the moment, so I’ll be leaving. Before I go, I’d like my gun back.”
Arne gave her his best blow-torch stare. Cassandra stared right back.
“Well, perhaps you’d be willing to give a statement soon,” Arne said, smiling. “You’ve probably heard we have dead and disappeared people around here and it looks as though you may be related to them. So, yes, we need to talk.”
“Fine,” Cassandra said. “I’ll be at the Paradise Pines Hotel. Call me tomorrow. Now, my gun please.”
Legally, Arne could have kept the weapon under one pretext or another, but he handed it back to Cassandra. “Wouldn’t want you to go unprotected,” he said. “You have a nice day. Sorry for all the bother. Mr. Zweifel was just a little excited, I guess. He gets that way sometimes.”
Cassandra slipped the gun in her jacket pocket without a word, went over to her BMW and drove off. After she left, I said, “There are two things you should know, Arne. The first is that I saw a man out in the woods, disguised with a ski mask. I think it was the Serenader. The second thing is that he left another message, nailed to Big Tom.”
I didn’t mention that Cassandra had lied about how she came to fire her revolver, assuming, of course, that she’d told me the truth. Clearly, she didn’t trust Arne. But did she trust me? I wasn’t sure.
Arne sent his deputies to swarm through the woods in search of evidence while I answered more questions. Jason Braddoc
k from the BCA arrived just after six thirty and joined the on-scene interrogation. There wasn’t much I could say, other than explaining how I’d come to search for Cassandra before encountering the mysterious man in black.
“Maybe it was Bigfoot,” Arne offered at one point.
“Yeah, he’s famous for wearing a leather jacket and ski mask,” I said. “A great disguise.”
Arne was skeptical of my story from the start, suspecting I’d planted yet another message and then lured Cassandra out to the park for nefarious purposes. I said that was absurd, but he and Jason kept pushing at me until someone else demanded their attention. A deputy came rushing out of the woods, a phone screen glowing in his hand like a magical lantern, and said, “We found the message, I took a shot of it. There’s also another of those thumb drives with it.”
I stood behind Arne, Jason and the deputy as they read the message, which had a decidedly biblical quality:
The end days are near. Sins will be exposed, sinners punished. Fires will rage. THE WOMAN will eat of the tree of knowledge. Let the truth shine forth. The Serenader
“It’s just more crazy shit,” Arne said.
I knew better but didn’t pursue the point. Instead, I told Arne I’d enjoyed his stimulating company but it was time to go. He couldn’t stop me—there was no probable cause I’d committed any crime in the woods—but said he’d have more questions later.
“Can’t wait,” I said, and left.
I headed home, stopping first to grab an exquisite meal at the McDonald’s along the interstate. Camus, his bladder swollen to the size of a hot-air balloon, was extremely happy to see me. I let him out to do his business, chewed on my hamburger at the kitchen table and decided that one way or the other, I was going to have a come-to-Jesus moment with Cassandra Ellis because I was all but certain she’d been in secret contact with the Serenader.
26
I called Cassandra at the hotel first thing in the morning but as usual there was no answer on her room phone, so I went in to work and tried to pretend I was interested in the many routine tasks that fall to a county attorney. Doug came in to pump me for information but I shooed him away and then went for a break at Koffeeken’s. Its loquacious proprietor was on hand, armed with high doses of caffeine and gossip. I soon learned Cassandra’s sylvan adventure with me the evening before was already the talk of the town.
“And what is the rumor mill grinding out at the moment?” I asked Ken as he detonated a depth charge and set it in front of me.
“Word has it she was meeting the Serenader at the park but then you came along and spoiled her plans,” Ken said. “Or maybe it was the other way around. I even heard one version that you were out there in a black ski mask trying to scare her.”
“No, that was Bigfoot,” I said. “A word of advice, Ken. Spread all the gossip you want, but be very careful what you believe.”
Ken had other news to offer, none of it scintillating, and after loading up on caffeine I returned to the office, well buzzed. I logged on to my computer, scanned several official county e-mails imploring me to do one profoundly important thing or another, then called up the latest edition of Tommy Redmond’s “Paradise Detective Bureau.”
There, to my surprise, I found the Serenader’s message word for word. The deputy’s cell phone snapshot had somehow found its way into Tommy’s possession. His blog went on to report that a thumb drive had also been found, but I only learned later that it held yet another snippet of unrecognizable music and muffled background voices.
I expected a call from Tommy, but the afternoon went by without a word from him. Ditto Cassandra. She still wasn’t answering her phone at the hotel. My come-to-Jesus moment with her appeared to be on hold.
I was crossing the courthouse square on the way to my car when Tommy Redmond finally caught up to me. He hailed me with a desperate arm wave as though I was the last taxi in a rainstorm and came rushing up, notebook in hand. He was wearing his usual flamboyant red sportscoat, a stoplight you didn’t dare go through.
“Nice blog today,” I said. “How did you manage to get your sweaty little paws on that photo?”
“I have friends in high places,” Tommy said with a grin.
“Last time I checked, there were no high places in Paradise County.”
“Ha, good one, Paulie. Maybe I should have said low places, you know, where all the dirt settles. Anyway, how about we have a chat?”
“There’s not really much I can tell you, Tommy. As you so ably reported the other day, I’m off the case.”
“Sure, and yesterday you were out in the woods with that Ellis woman looking for the Serenader. Doesn’t sound like you’re off the case to me. I even hear you saw him.”
“I can’t comment on that. Maybe Arne will let you read his report of the incident, assuming you haven’t seen it already.”
“Right. Arne and I have a regular love affair.”
“I can’t wait to read all about that in the Tattler. But really, I don’t have much I can share with you. I’m like everybody else in town. I’m trying to figure this whole thing out.”
Tommy’s saucer eyes registered disappointment and I thought he’d start pressing me for more information. Instead, he said, “Okay, I’m really busy anyway so I’ll let you go. But let’s stay in touch, Paulie. You help me, I help you. If you find out anything, you know who to call.”
“You’re on my speed dial,” I lied and watched Tommy head back across the courthouse square. He walked quickly and purposefully, his red coat saturated in the late afternoon light, and he looked like a man afire. Maybe he was. A new edition of the Tattler was due out Friday and I expected it would offer plenty of incendiary news.
I was at home, tending to Camus’s need for constant attention, when my land line rang just after seven. Caller ID said it came from a cell phone with a 312 area code. That would be Chicago.
“This is Cassandra,” the familiar voice said. “Can you meet me at the hotel bar tonight? I’ve done some unfortunate things and I need to set matters right. Would nine o’clock work?”
I said it would.
I pulled into the parking lot of the Paradise Pines Hotel just before nine. The twelve-story hotel is the county’s tallest building by far. Peter had always been inordinately proud of his creation, claiming it brought “a touch of real class” to our benighted corner of the world. Curved in the form of a broad arc, the hotel sports a tropical color scheme in pink and aqua green, a bit of Miami Beach magically transported to the frozen hinterlands. The hotel is promoted as “your private paradise,” but I’ve always thought of it as a bawdy architectural hooker, designed to seduce. At two hundred dollars a night it’s too expensive for locals, who instead perform all the minimum-wage grunt work needed to keep the place running.
The hotel’s glitzy bar, called Tropics, offers the usual assortment of overpriced alcohol in a faux atmosphere decked out with murals of tanned beachgoers cavorting in the sun. The place wasn’t crowded on a Thursday night, and I found Cassandra—the only Black person in evidence —sitting in a small booth beneath one of the murals. She was wearing a no-nonsense dark blue suit and gave me a courteous handshake before I took the seat across from her.
“You’ve got the floor,” I said. “I really would like to hear what you and the Serenader have been up to.”
Cassandra was drinking something with water—bourbon or maybe Scotch. She took a very demure sip and said, “How’d you know I’ve been in touch with him?”
“Detective work. You told me you’d called the man who sent you the letter, presumably the Serenader, before you came up here. Then before long you went undercover—I guess that’s how I’d describe it—and I thought, maybe it was because of something you’d learned from another chat with the Serenader. My caffeine-dispensing pal Ken Michaels also mentioned you’d told him you thought people had the wrong idea about our mysterious me
ssage man. I took that to be further evidence you’d been in contact with him. So why don’t you tell me all about it?”
“All right, I owe you an explanation. You’re right. We talked four times, over the phone. He used a device to disguise his voice so I wouldn’t be able to identify him. He said he was in local law enforcement—he didn’t specify which agency he worked for—and couldn’t come forward because he feared for his life. He described a huge conspiracy involving the sheriff, Dewey Swindell, a guy name Marty Moreland, and you.”
“Wow. A vast conspiracy right here in Pineland. And you believed him?”
“I did.”
“That was foolish.”
“Yes,” Cassandra said softly. “It was. But he was very convincing and he had lots of information. The conspiracy, he said, centered around me, and Dewey Swindell was at the heart of it.”
“Come on, Cassandra, that’s just pure bullshit. Dewey—may he rest in peace—couldn’t have conspired his way out of a paper bag.”
“Okay, but I didn’t know that.”
Cassandra unspooled the conspiracy story as revealed to her by the Serenader. It was nothing if not baroque. Dewey had found out she was his stepsister, and he feared she’d try to get her hands on a big chunk of daddy’s money. So Dewey lured her up to Pineland with a phony letter even as he kidnapped and presumably murdered his father to keep him from ever revealing the truth about his Black daughter. Dewey then planned to kill Cassandra, with help from Arne, Marty Moreland and myself, all alleged co-conspirators in a magnificently intricate scheme. But something went wrong and the conspirators had to take out Dewey. Meanwhile, there was also the business with Jill Lorrimer. The Serenader claimed Arne, Marty and I had been at Peter’s house when Jill received a lethal overdose of drugs. We then conspired to cover up the true manner of her death.
When Cassandra was done, I said, “The story he told you has, oh I don’t know, maybe a thousand holes in it. It doesn’t make an ounce of sense if you think about it. But I have a pretty good idea why you fell for it.”
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