A Rendezvous to Die For (17 page)

After eating a late supper, I
spent the rest of the evening poring over the material. The drama
played itself out in almost daily articles for a couple months. The
commission got a good taste of Strothers makeup. The initial EIS
strategy had backfired, big time. When the EIS was filed, instead of
backing down and leaving town, Strothers adroitly took the offensive
and turned the tables. He sued the Indians, because they hadn’t
advised him of the hazardous material at the site, which essentially
put the onus on the Indians, making them responsible for the problem,
instead of Strothers himself.

“
I came to Colton Mills in good
faith, to build something of value for the Indian community. I feel I
was double-crossed,” he crowed to a TV reporter. “Frank Kyopa and
his team knew of the hazardous waste on the property and should have
made it public knowledge. I never would have pursued my project, if I
had known the situation existed. Kyopa allowed me to get sucked into
the development plans, knowing all along that he intended to provide
the commission with the shocking information too late for me to do
anything about it.”

I stopped reading and thought
about Strothers’ comment. Was he implying that Marty was used as
Frank’s pawn? With every interview and article, Strothers proved
himself a master manipulator. His star brightened with every letter
that appeared in the newspaper.

“
I think it’s appalling the
way Strothers was treated. The man came all the way up here from
Chicago with a plan to help the Indians with affordable housing, only
to be bushwhacked by the tribe when he had already spent considerable
time and money on the project,” wrote one letter writer. “The
Indians are getting greedy now that they have the casino. They don’t
want anyone else to participate in their good fortune.”

Strothers seemed to have several
people in his back pocket. Jack and I already knew about his
connection with Eric, although I still hadn’t figured out how to
use the information. He seemed to be skillfully leveraging all of his
contacts to sway public opinion in advance of the impending lawsuit.
Dennis Overland, commission chairman, was one of his biggest
supporters. Janine had filled me in on his background. He’d made a
career out of attaching himself to the coattails of others, using his
football-star charm to carry him when his actual business talent
failed. He had dropped out of college, after a second-season injury
made him ineligible to play, and returned to Colton Mills. He made
his first “career move” by marrying the daughter of the town’s
oldest milling family. The family moved into insurance, when milling
went downhill, and had a well-established business in town when
Overland joined them as a broker. His engaging personality and
glad-handing ways served him well in the insurance game, and he had
made a good name for himself by the time he was appointed to the
commission. But Dennis had bigger fish to fry. Janine had said
getting on the commission was his first step toward state office. And
on that path, he allied himself with whomever he thought could help
him most.

Big-city, rich, and powerful Guy
Strothers was just that kind of man. Overland made the commitment to
support him and was contributing to Strothers’ public-opinion
campaign in spades. The two were often photographed together,
socializing at the Friday-night fish fry, contributing time at the
town’s county fair, presenting a check to the local women’s
shelter, or fielding questions about the development and upcoming
decision on his lawsuit. The naïve local reporters fell prey to his
magnetism, and the savvy Strothers turned them on to his planted
Chicago contacts, who provided only positive input. As a result,
articles appeared, touting how he’d helped local communities
through his building and charitable involvement.

In article after article,
however, my landlord was getting the short end of the stick. He was
continuously identified as being opposed to progress and working
against the wishes of the townspeople and, especially, the Indian
tribes. In the most recent articles, he was not even subtly connected
to the Rendezvous murder. Clearly, he was outclassed by the master of
spin.

The articles also mentioned Frank
Kyopa and his efforts to counter Strothers’ allies, but he, too,
was losing the battle. Frank’s direct, confrontational manner did
not play well in the media. The more he said to defend himself, the
deeper the hole he dug.

Even though the EIS research was
proceeding, its status was swept off the pages by the impending
lawsuit. In the final analysis, it didn’t really matter if it
eventually stopped the development or not. If Strothers’ strategy
were successful—and it looked more and more as though it would
be—he stood to gain as much in a financial settlement from the
now-flush tribe as he would have gotten from a successful
development.

After
I had dumped all the articles into a trashcan, I went to bed. There
was no good reason for me to keep them. I had learned all I needed to
know about Strothers and Frank and Marty and their opposing
viewpoints about the proposed housing development, and I was no
further along in pinpointing any of them as Eric and Randy’s
killer. Now I knew why it was taking Shaw and the police so long to
arrest someone. Sir Walter Scott said it all, when he wrote, “O
h
what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!”

Chapter
16

Thursday—Week
Two

After an early-morning ride with
Midnight and a couple errands, Anna called. “I’m attending a
meeting of the Rendezvous Society this afternoon,” she said. “I
thought you’d find it interesting. Want to tag along?”

“
Sure,” I said. “The
subject is currently an interest of mine.”

“
I’ll pick you up at 1:15
sharp.”

The
Rendezvous Society met in a Civil War-era building that was the
county courthouse until about 1899. Abandoned by the county in favor
of a new courthouse built a hundred years later, the brick building
housed the Odd Fellows hall for decades, until the group could no
longer maintain it. Pigeons, bats, and rats inhabited it for a
quarter century, until the town’s Historical Preservation Society
raised enough funds to restore it. It was now used as the meeting
place of several Colton Mills social groups.

About a dozen people—all
men—were already seated in chairs fronting a foot-high stage that
ran the length of the room. A heavy maroon-velvet curtain served as a
backdrop for the occasional community-theater drama, if it didn’t
require a professional-lighting setup. Some of the men were dressed
as Rendezvous characters. Others were in street clothes. Marty and
Willis sat next to each other the first row.

Anna and I took seats in the
back, just as a buckskin-clad man jumped up onto the stage. From what
I’d seen at the June Rendezvous, he was a mountain man. He had a
rifle in his hand, which Anna told me was a Flintlock. His fringed
hunting pouch, slung over his right shoulder and attached by an
inch-wide leather strap, fell to his waist on the left side. A powder
flask, also attached by a leather strap, crisscrossed the pouch’s
strap in front, falling to his waist on the left side. A sheathed
knife was stuck into the waistband of his buckskin leggings. He wore
no hat. His brown hair, pulled back into a ponytail, revealed a
silver earring loop in his left ear.

“
Welcome Ronnyvooers,” he
said in the hoarse voice of a habitual smoker. “I’m Muskrat, jest
back from three months of trappin’ out in the Rockies.” He smiled
broadly, revealing several missing teeth. It wasn’t clearly
apparent if the missing choppers were part of the authentic costume
or if the person behind the Muskrat disguise was actually missing
teeth. He shaded his eyes and squinted into the audience. “Is Jeff
here?” he asked. “Jeff, git your sorry butt up here.”

A man, not dressed for Rendezvous
success, sauntered onto stage. “Thanks, Muskrat,” he said in a
Chamber of Commerce voice. “And thanks for coming, members and
guests.” In the next few minutes, he took care of several items of
old business, finances, and new business. ”We especially want to
thank Five Paws,” he said, nodding toward Willis Lansing, “for
last month’s demonstration on sewing leather. Next month, we’ll
hear from Leaping Turtle, who’ll discuss quill writing and paper
making. It promises to be an informative evening. But right now,
we’re happy to have Muskrat with us. He’s going to discuss
authenticity in clothing. Muskrat has been attending and studying our
Rendezvous event for two decades.”

Before Muskrat could begin, a
hand shot up in the audience and a man rose to speak. “A coupla’
weeks ago, a man was kilt at our Ronnyvous. One of our own is
suspected in that death. Are we gonna jes bury our heads in the sand
and pretend it don’t happen?”

“
Hear! Hear!” chorused the
audience.

Jeff, apparently from the
press-release school of managing conflict, responded in a more
business-like manner. “The investigation into this incident is
having a negative effect on all reenactor groups, Wild Boar. As soon
as this is resolved—which I’m confident will be soon—we will
get some positive articles to the local press and reverse any damage
that’s been caused.”

Wild Boar jumped to his feet
again. “Negative effect? Damage control? Shee-it! If that don’t
beat all. We otta face this thing square in the eye . . . like real
men!”

Most of the group applauded,
hooted, and shot their fists in the air. A second man joined Wild
Boar. “The question is . . . could the murderer act’lly be one of
us? Maybe right in this room?” He pointed his finger, scanning the
entire audience. The voices hushed.

Wild Boar leaped onto stage to
take control of the discussion. “What do we know fer sure about the
crime, folks? One, that he was killed with a ’hawk. Two, that ’hawk
belonged to Tomahawk Pete. No question about that.” He stared
straight at Marty.

“
No. No question ‘bout that,”
Marty said, shaking his head. “The ’hawk was definitely mine.
Every one of you has seen it a dozen times. You know it by the brass
nails.”

“
Not to mention yore initials
on the blade.” Wild Boar’s eyes sparkled and he grinned,
satisfied with the way things were going.

“
Yeah, that, too,” Marty
said, in a softer voice. He lowered his head.

“
We all knows the victim and
you had no love fer each other. That’s right, too, ain’t it?”
The self-appointed moderator wiggled his chin whiskers, like a
character from an old Gabby Hayes movie. It seemed that he was about
to judge Marty guilty.

Marty wasn’t going to take that
sitting down. He popped up in his seat and raised his voice. “I
didn’t kill Eric Hartfield, but if anybody deserved killing, it was
that man. He was the kind that gave vermin a bad name.”

“
Those’re fightin’ words,
Tomahawk Pete,” Wild Boar said.

“
I’ve never been one to mince
words.” Marty peered at the audience, not afraid to meet anyone’s
eyes.

“
The sheriff is workin’ on
two premises,” the speaker said, regardless if anyone was listening
to him or not. “Either you planned the hit and set out to do him
in. Or, you met him, got in a rip-roarin’ argument, and ’hawked
him.”

Marty took two long strides
toward the stage and, for a second, I thought he was going to attack
the speaker. But he threw up his arms, as if pleading to the group.
“Would I have used my own ’hawk, if I had set out to kill Eric
Hartfield? Would any of you?”

“
Probl’y not,” Wild Boar
said, squinting more closely at Marty. “Maybe someone else stole
yore ’hawk and used it. How easy would it be fer someone to do
that
?”

“
Pretty easy,” Marty said,
running his hands through his hair. “I don’t lock up my gear.
Never had to. Didn’t see a reason for it.”

Another frontier-outfitted man
stood up. “There ya go, men. Believable facts. In all my years
comin’ to gatherin’s, I’ve never had nothin’ stole from me.
Ya can’t lock a tent, y’know. I once left a long rifle outside
after a night of imbibin’ and when I got up, the rifle was lyin’
on my table and someone had even dried her off. The folks in this
community is honest.”

Wild Boar nodded agreement. “From
what I’ve heard, the line of fellers that hated the rat who was
kilt would stretch from here to Wisconsin. We think yer off the hook,
Tomahawk Pete.” He and a couple others turned and gazed in my
direction. Apparently, I wasn’t an anonymous guest in this
gathering. “Let’s keep our eyes and ears open. Maybe we should
choose someone to help us keep track of any leads we get. Who’d
like to be that person?”

“
I nominate Five Paws,”
shouted a mountain man in the third row.

“
Any other nominations?” Wild
Boar said, taking charge. When none were forthcoming, he pointed at
Willis. “You willin’?”

“
If that’s what you’d
like,” Willis said, standing and nodding around to the attendees.
“Whatever I can do to help.”

“
Okay, Five Paws it is.” Wild
Boar banged the butt of his ’hawk on the lectern. “Whatever you
folks can think of that can help our police solve these two crimes
and get Ronnyvooers off the hook—and Tomahawk Pete in
pa’ticular—get in touch with Five Paws. But now, since Muskrat
has prepared a program, let’s hear what he’s got to say.” He
turned to Muskrat, who had faded into the background. “Some of you
have worn outfits that you want Muskrat to critique. If you’d like
to come up on stage, we’ll proceed with the regular meetin’.”