A Rendezvous to Die For (23 page)

“
That would be a difficult
task, Cassandra. The clothing we wear for such events is pretty
generic,” Willis said, pointing at one of the pictures.

Anna peered again at the photo
she was scrutinizing. “Here’s another thing that’s really
strange,” she said. “What do these boots look like to you?” She
pushed the photos towards me.

The man’s pants were tucked
into the boots and the coat nearly covered them. In one of the
photos, the boots were clearer as his coat fell open as he walked. I
shrugged. “Everything the participants wear seems strange to me, so
I’m not the one to ask. What do you see?”

“
They have designs on them,”
she said. “I find that odd, because the rest of the outfit is
pretty standard.” She stroked an exquisite silver bracelet on her
wrist.

“
Does it look like the guy’s
trying to disguise himself?” I persisted with my questions. I had
already learned more that I had known before entering Red’s. “He’s
so covered up, Anna. From what you’ve said about the weather and
choice of outfit, this guy doesn’t seem to know much about
authentic clothing. Maybe he pulled a fur hat over his eyes and
donned a long coat so he’d pass for a Rendezvooer, if anyone saw
him.”

Anna glanced up in surprise. “I
assume you’ve already searched through all the other photos of
Rendezvous participants that you have?”

“
Yes,” I said, gazing at the
top photo. “The guy in this outfit doesn’t show up in any of
them. And I can’t remember seeing him there either.”

“
Well, it is an intriguing
idea, Cassandra, ” Willis said, snapping his finger against the
photo, “but you cannot make the jump to accuse anyone of being a
murderer merely from this picture. You’d have to find the clothing
in the person’s possession and, even then, still not have proof
that would stand up in a court of law.”

I fiddled with my beer, making
wet patterns on the tabletop. “If I can find a way to do that, I’ll
do it, Willis.”

“
Please be careful, Cassandra,”
Anna said, a frown etching her forehead. “I know you want to get to
the bottom of this, but you’re playing a dangerous game. I’ll see
what I can do on my end. For starters, I’ll try to find out about
Strothers’ potential relationship to this Virgil Dewitt.”

“
Good,” I said. “I’ve run
out of places to look.” My tone brightened. “But . . . I’m
going to see what I can find out about those boots.”

“
Well, that’s a safer course
of action. Stop in and I’ll loan you some books about frontier
clothing.”

I excused myself and headed to
the ladies’ room. There, I smiled at myself in the mirror. “Willis
and Anna, who would have thought,” I said to my reflection. “They
make a nice couple.”

Approaching our booth, upon my
return, I saw a fourth person had been added to our threesome. Anna
smiled. “Cassandra,” she said, gesturing to a man seated across
from her, “this is Nick Parker, a friend of mine who used to live
in Colton Mills.” It was the guitarist.

“
Nice to meet you,” I said,
shaking hands with him. My eyes burned into Anna’s, but she
strategically shifted hers to her new best friend, who was now taking
up half of my side of the booth.

He quickly scooted out of the
booth, ran his fingers through his longish salt and pepper hair, and
mumbled, “Nice to meet you, too.” He gestured for me to enter the
booth and then slid in after me.

Even with a couple of Sam Adams
beers under my belt, my instincts told me I was being set up. This
meeting had all the earmarks of Anna’s perennial orchestrations. A
gremlin on my shoulder told me not to be so self-centered, that when
I was under the influence of Sam Adams I can misjudge situations.
Despite my misgivings, I reacted to his touch and felt my face
warming.
Must be just because I haven’t been with any
interesting men lately,
I thought. But I was getting wa-a-y ahead
of myself. “Nice playing,” I said, hugging the wall. “But why
haven’t I heard of you before now?”

“
He
just came into town this week,” Anna chirped, her hands fluttering.

I focused on removing the label
from my bottle of beer. “Oh, you’re a traveling musician,” I
said, my voice flat.

“
Nope, afraid not,” he said.
He chuckled and turned toward me. “Red’s is the only place you’ll
have the privilege of hearing me. Playing is strictly a hobby.”

“
Nick is planning to resume his
career as an EMT,” Willis said. “He will be managing emergency
services for three counties.”

With that, the miniscule stage
lights went up and Nick headed for the stage. I couldn’t wait to
take up Anna’s matchmaking when Willis wasn’t around. Matter of
fact, I’d also take up the “Willis” matter. We chatted on about
the weather, Anna’s business, and Willis’ hobbies, completely
avoiding the Rendezvous investigation.

As soon as I felt I could leave
Red’s, I headed for the door, surprised that I felt a little tipsy.
How much beer did I have anyway? As I was about to push open the
door, it opened for me. Preoccupied, I didn’t notice who had
performed the courtesy until a hand clamped on my upper arm and the
instigator had pulled me outside.

“
I thought I recognized your
Jeep,” Strothers said, propelling me across the parking lot. He
flipped a cigarette onto the pavement. “C’mon. I’ve got
something to talk to you about.”

My stomach churned as he
half-pulled, half-carried me. I felt weak and scared and reproached
myself for letting down my guard. I knew I should shout, scream, do
something, but I couldn’t penetrate the Sam Adams fog.

Strothers’ fingers pinched my
arm. My boots dragged on the asphalt, making a rasping sound in the
night. Everything moved in slow motion. I saw the ordinariness of the
parking lot lights sending their diffused light onto the parked cars.
Insects drifted like snow through their amber glow. A slight breeze
sent a Dairy Queen napkin skittering along the ground. At the edge of
the lot, a girl laughed aloud and, in the periphery of my vision, I
saw a knot of teens perched on the concrete abutment, passing a
bottle among them. They ignored the two of us.

We had reached the shadows and I
could see his vehicle. What would he do, if he got me into his
vehicle? Gathering all the strength I could, I twisted away from him,
dropping to the ground as I did so. It was just enough to make him
relax his grip. I tried to run, but stumbled, the stones of the
parking lot biting into my knee.

Strothers was on me like a hawk
on a mouse. “Get up, bitch,” he growled, sticking his face near
mine. I smelled his beery breath. He had me by my hair, but he had
been thrown off balance when I tried to get away. He hesitated just
long enough for me to pick up my foot and kick him in the crotch. He
gave an explosive grunt and dropped to his knees, letting go of me. I
ran, drunkenly zigzagging toward the patch of light that was the
Roadhouse. I collapsed against the door.

My next memory is of someone was
stroking my forehead, holding my hand. “You’re going to be okay,”
he said, his face so close that a lock of salt-and-pepper hair
brushed against my face. “We’ll take care of you.” I closed my
eyes. The last thing I heard was the sound of sirens, coming closer
and closer.

Chapter
21

Tuesday—Week
Three

I awoke the next morning by 6:16,
feeling decidedly groggy. I remembered staying in the Emergency Room
just long enough to have my scratches treated and pull myself
together. By the time Anna dropped me at home, I had been primed for
sleep. With a dozen things on my mind, now, I was eager to get into
my darkroom again. An hour later, I was pulling photo paper out of
its last chemical bath, when the doorbell rang. “Who is it?” I
said, shouting.

Marty’s gruff voice was equally
loud. “It’s me. Marty.”

For a heavily bearded, robustly
built guy, Marty always looked good—clean, well pressed, and
physically fit. But not today. Even the hat pulled over his hair
could not disguise his uncombed mane. His bushy beard needed a trim.
Bleary-eyed, his clothes looked and smelled as if he had slept in
them for several days. He stood in front of the door, feet apart,
hands on hips. He not only looked like a wild man, he looked like an
angry wild man.

“
What the hell is going on
here?” he asked, by way of greeting. “I got a call from the
sheriff that I might want to get my ass home, because somebody
fire-bombed my house!”

“
It’s obviously true,” I
said, gesturing toward the scorched wall and taking in the temporary
walkway the fire department had laid down across the ruined deck.

We stood side by side, surveying
the damage to the deck and the sturdy wall. Although the wall was
unscathed, flames had charred the stones all the way to the roof. My
deck chair—what was left of it—lay in a pool of debris-littered
water generated by the firefighters. The acrid smell of fire still
hung in the air.

“
Damn it,” Marty said,
slapping his hat against his thigh. “Do you have any idea who did
this? Or why?”

“
I’ve got my suspicions, but
nothing I can prove.”

He eyed me with interest
reflected in his face. “I must say, I’m mighty confused. Just
can’t understand why you’ve ended up in the middle of this.”

“
Do you think you should have
been the target instead?”

He gave me a piercing look. “I
was a target, but not with a fire bomb.”

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.