A Rendezvous to Die For (16 page)

“
That’s an understatement.
gal.” Marty slurped coffee from his mug.

“
Has he ever . . . threatened
you, because of your position against his development plans?”

“
Hell, yeah, he’s threatened
me. He’s threatened almost everybody in this town. Why, he’s
probably even threatened you.” He chuckled and reached for a second
muffin.

“
He has . . . in a way,” I
said.

Marty’s chuckle died and he
slopped coffee onto the table. “How’d you get on that scumbag’s
bad side?” His eyes flashed and a scowl line deepened over the
bridge of his nose.

“
Well . . . actually, it has to
do with you,” I said, wiping up the coffee spill with a couple
napkins. “He thinks he’s put two and two together and come up
with me as the bearer of some sort of information between the Indians
and you . . . information that affects his business plans.”

“
That’s nuts!” Marty’s
face had grown visibly red. He pushed back his chair with a loud
screech, rising as though to leave. He was clearly angry.

“
Wait. There’s more,” I
said, easing him back down in his chair. I told him about my
confrontation with Strothers in Grizzly’s, and how Strothers had
voiced his certainty that I had told Marty about the old paint
factory on the reservation.

“
That bastard! I’ll—”

“
There’s more.” I told him
about someone’s attempt to run me off the road, only a couple hours
before I had the altercation with Strothers.

“
He’s a hothead,” Marty
allowed. His frown relaxed somewhat, and he settled back into his
chair. “But no matter what I think of the man personally, I can’t
see him trying to run you off the road, then confronting you in the
coffee shop right afterward. That doesn’t make sense, even for him.
I have to concede that I’m known as a hothead, too.”

“
If he didn’t do it, who
did?” I shot back. “And why?”

Marty picked up a third muffin
and devoured it in three bites. “What does Shaw think?”

I shrugged. “There are no
witnesses. I get the feeling he doesn’t believe it ever happened.
Anyway, he said the incident is in the police’s jurisdiction, not
the sheriff’s. And the break-in is being investigated by the police
department, too, so Shaw’s not directly involved with that either.”

“
These damn jurisdiction
fights!” Marty said, his voice rising again. “If those folks
weren’t so involved in their petty jealousies and shared their
investigative information, they’d solve more crimes!”

“
Yes, well—”

Marty was on his feet again. He
strode to the window and turned. “Do you know where the sheriff is
in the murder investigations?” he interrupted. “It still boggles
my mind that two of them have taken place in one week. That’s two
more than I’ve seen in my lifetime.”

“
I haven’t heard anything.”
I paused, stirring my coffee. “Have you?”

“
I know some things and others
I can guess at from working closely with law enforcement over the
years.”

I peered at him more closely.
“Apparently, whatever they’ve found doesn’t exonerate either
you or me, or I wouldn’t be hearing from Shaw on a regular basis.”

“
If you factor in only the one
crime scene that took place in the sweat lodge, we would be the main
suspects. Your footprints were at the scene and my ’hawk was
imbedded in Hartfield’s head.”

“
Everyone knows why I was at
the sweat lodge. I’m a photographer. I take pictures of everything
that takes place at such an event as the Rendezvous.” I rose and
put our empty mugs in the sink. “Do you have any idea how the
killer got your tomahawk?”

Marty headed for the living room
to reach the entry door. He stopped to examine a couple framed
photographs on the wall and then straightened one perfectly straight
picture. His gaze scanned the rest of the room. “I’ve thought and
thought about that, Cassandra. A lot of people have been to my house
over the years, and just about everyone knows where I keep my ’hawks.
But I can’t see that anyone I know well would have taken it or
killed Eric. I keep thinking someone stole it, though. It wouldn’t
have been hard to do. I never locked them away.”

I thought about that, but worked
at keeping a straight face. It sounded like a convenient excuse. “How
about fingerprints at the scene?”

“
It’s hard to get
fingerprints off materials in a place like the sweat lodge, and I
doubt they have the technology for it anyway. But . . . I’m sure
they’re trying.”

“
What about fingerprints on the
tomahawk?”
More
information. I need more information.

My landlord winced and lowered
his voice. “The handle was splattered with blood. And there was a
lot of that, as you know from being at the scene.”

“
Actually, I don’t know,” I
said and shuddered. “I was in shock. I don’t remember any
details, Marty.”

He scratched his head, massaging
his forehead. “Wouldn’t you think, when the perpetrator left that
scene, that he’d be covered in blood and that someone would have
seen him?”

“
You’d think so.” I
fingered my scar and chewed on my lower lip.

“
The deputy said there was no
sign of a skirmish or any indication that Eric tried to defend
himself.” Marty wagged his index finger at me. “He’s trying to
figure out just how the crime took place. Was someone waiting inside
for him? Or outside? Was Eric there to meet someone? Was he killed
outside or at some other scene and then carried into the lodge? For
such a violent crime, the crime scene doesn’t have very many
clues.”

I handed Marty his hat, which he
had tossed onto a chair by the entry. “I’m hoping something
breaks in the case pretty soon so I can get my life back.”

“
You and me both.”

Through the living room window, I
watched Marty cross the driveway and stride toward his house. Then, I
danced all the way back to the kitchen.
Yes! I did it!
For the
first time in days, I felt a surge of hope. “Way to go, Cassandra!”
I said aloud.

Then I quickly folded. I learned
the police had no fingerprints, the tomahawk was covered with only
Eric’s blood, and there was no sign of a skirmish at the lodge. The
only physical evidence they had was my footprint at the scene . . .
and a possible hair Shaw kept taunting me about. People had been
convicted on less evidence.

I hadn’t asked Marty a thing
about how well he knew Randy or if he had ever visited his home or if
he knew anything about that weapon. Of course, I still held two
pieces of information. Strothers had threatened Marty . . . enough to
be a motive for getting rid of him. And Eric had probably been
blackmailing Strothers . . . a reason for Strothers to kill Eric.
That last piece I had not shared with Marty. But . . . what could I
do with the information? And what did any of it have to do with
Randy?

Chapter
15

Wednesday,
5:35 p.m.

Knowing I needed even more
information, I decided to make another trip to the stables to visit
Jack. I hoped he would agree to elicit a few more answers from his
touted friends in the sheriff’s department. After parking, I headed
for the horse barn. Jack was busy mucking out one of the stalls. “A
little light on stable hands today?” I said, teasing him.

“
Damn unreliable kids!” He
tossed a forkful of damp wood chips into a cart, then leaned on the
fork, appraising me. “What brings you here so soon after our
luncheon tête-à-tête, sweet lady?”

“
Since our meeting, I’ve had
two interesting ones with Willis Lansing and my landlord.” I told
him what Marty had learned about the crime.

“
How’d Marty know all that?”
He pulled the stall door closed.

I walked with him as he wheeled
the cart through the barn. “He said he found out some of it and
guessed the rest of it. Jack . . . do you think your friends in the
sheriff’s department would have some inside information they’d be
willing to share with you?”

He threw me a look from the sides
of his eyes. “I’ve already made plans to head that way this
weekend. I’ll see what a few friendly beers can pry loose.”

We’d almost reached the end of
the barn. A teenage boy appeared at the doorway, out of breath from
running. ”Sorry I’m late,” he said. Jack thrust the fork in his
hand.

We walked towards my Jeep. “By
the way,” I said, “How’s the black gelding? Is his leg healed?”

“
Midnight’s coming along
great. Matter of fact, the owner said he’d like to see the horse
ridden and exercised on a regular basis.”

“
Good idea.” I leaned on the
wooden fence, spotting Midnight among the horses in the paddock.
“Looks like he’d be a great ride. What’s he like anyway?”

“
Don’t rightly know.” Jack
shrugged. “Unfortunately, I’ve been too busy to throw a saddle on
him. He’s turned out and hooked up to the walker every day, which
is helping some, but he really needs to be ridden.”

I patted the head of a dainty
buckskin that came looking for a treat. “Why doesn’t the owner
sell him, if he doesn’t ride him?”

Jack rewarded her with a nugget
he pulled from out of his pocket. She took it and turned away. “I’ve
suggested it to him, and all I get is a ‘definitely not,’ so I’ve
quit pestering him. I’ve been looking for another rider who’s
capable of handling him and who has the time to do it on a regular
basis. The owner is willing to pay someone to do that.”

I headed for my car. “Of all
the boarders here, there’s no one who can or wants to do that?”

Jack snorted. “You’ve seen
the horses in this stable, Cass. They’re mostly Quarter Horses, and
most everyone is interested in western-style riding. The riders want
to learn how to cut cows and barrel race. That’s why they hired me.
Midnight, on the other hand, is a Tennessee Walker who direct reins,
English-style, and wouldn’t know a cow from an elephant.”

I chuckled as I opened my car
door and slid behind the wheel. “And he certainly wouldn’t know
the moves these Quarter Horses make.”

Jack propped his arm across the
hood of my vehicle. “You should know, Cass. You learned how to ride
in a Tennessee Walker stable and . . . .” He slapped the palm of
his hand against his forehead. “Why didn’t I think of it before?
You
can ride him!”

“
Oh, no,” I said, inserting
the key into the ignition. “My riding skills are too rusty to
handle a horse that hasn’t been ridden in more than a year.
Besides, I’ve got enough on my mind, without adding Midnight to my
troubles.”

“
Riding a horse is like riding
a bicycle. You don’t forget how to do it.” Jack reached into my
car and switched off the ignition. As he pulled me out, he grinned.
“You were a damn good rider. I know. I taught you myself. What
better way to get your mind off your problems than to ride.” He
took hold of my arm. “C’mon, let’s go see him.”

I let him lead me back to the
paddock. He grabbed a halter hanging on the fence, opened the gate,
singled Midnight out from the horses, and led him out onto the grass.
“There, look at him,” he said, stroking the horse’s neck.
“Isn’t he a sweetheart?”

Midnight had one white star on
his forehead, the only white in his otherwise all-black coat. He
regarded us through a set of intelligent brown eyes. I reached out
and patted his nose. He didn’t move away, but stood as I scratched
behind his ears. In spite of myself, I was softening.

“
Let’s take a closer look at
him,” Jack said. He led the horse to the arena and hooked him up to
a long lunge line. As he let out the line, Midnight walked slowly in
a circle. Jack clucked to him and picked up the pace, settling into
the smooth walk that defines the Walker breed.

More than a decade had passed
since I’d ridden regularly. As I watched Jack skillfully perform
his routine, I pictured myself on the horse’s back and was hooked.
“Okay,” I said, throwing up my hands. “I’ll see how it goes.”

Jack grinned. “All his stuff is
still in the tack room. I’ll get it for you, along with a waiver
you’ll have to sign. Then you’re good to go.”

I took Midnight’s halter and
led him back to the paddock. Working with the horse turned out to be
the diversion I needed. After only a couple sessions of groundwork
and some riding in the arena, I took him outside. He danced around
and swung his head back and forth a few times, but I soon had him
under control and headed for the trails that wound through the woods
around the stables.
Only minutes before, I couldn’t
understand how I could or why I’d even try to fit an animal into my
life. Now, I couldn’t imagine life without him. I was blown away by
his elegance and beauty and charmed by his happy whinny. I had, quite
simply, fallen in love with the creature.

* * *

On the way home from the stables,
I called Janine. Fortunately, the library kept evening hours. I asked
her to gather all the newspaper articles she could find on the
political turmoil resulting from the environmental impact study. If
she had the newspapers themselves, I would make photocopies. Ditto
for those on microfilm.