A Rendezvous to Die For (29 page)

Moving
quietly toward the window, I pushed my face against it to see if I
could detect any signs of light. I couldn’t see a thing. Probably
shades or heavy draperies covered the window. I placed my ear against
the pane and listened. No noise came from inside the room.

I felt up and down the window
casing to find the latch that held the two windows together. I
slipped the crowbar between them in what I figured was an adequate
breaking-and-entering procedure. After a few tries, the old wood
splintered and I had access to the latch. I set the crowbar on the
windowsill, reached inside and pushed open the window wide enough to
wriggle through the space. I parted the draperies, peeked inside the
cave-dark room, and stepped inside.

The air smelled stale, like no
one had refreshed it in months. Maybe my hunch was right and I was
standing in Kathleen’s apartment. As my eyes adjusted to the
dimness, I defined the shapes of furniture in what I assumed was a
bedroom. I pulled out my keychain and shined my small laser light on
the bed and dresser, to see if there were signs of occupancy.
Everything was well organized and neat, but every piece of furniture
was covered with a thin layer of dust. Nothing in the wastebasket.
Step by step, I inched my way through the room, into the hallway, and
toward the kitchen. The countertops were devoid of any signs of fresh
food. Their surfaces were also covered with a layer of dust. I pulled
open the refrigerator door. A welcoming light illuminated the room.
No food, but several bottles of white wine rested on their sides,
chilling. How long had they been there? Was Kathleen the drinker, or
someone else? The freezer was empty and the icemaker was turned to
off.

I returned to the hallway and
entered the windowless bathroom. Closing the door, I switched on the
light. A bar of soap and a hand towel rested on the porcelain sink. I
couldn’t tell when they had last been used. The soap was dry and
the sink was clean. The shower floor was dusty. I opened the top
drawer of the vanity. It was filled with typical women’s
toiletries, including eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick. The next
drawer held bottles of hairspray, hair gel, shampoo, brushes,
barrettes, and assorted hair ornaments. I felt like the intruder I
was.

Back in the hallway, I wandered
into a second bedroom. I shined the laser light around the room and
quickly identified it as Kathleen’s bedroom. The cast-iron bed was
made up with a decidedly feminine spread, accented with colorful red
and pink flowers and a ruffled binding. A stuffed white bear and
brown horse rested against the foot of the bedstead. A collection of
horse statues, along with some photos of a woman on a saddled black
horse filled one shelf. An easy chair filled one corner, with a low
bow-legged table next to it. A stereo took up half the table and the
rest was covered with a half-dozen or so framed pictures of a girl at
various ages. In front of the pictures were two wine glasses and a
candle. The setup looked like a shrine.

I assumed the pictures were of
Kathleen. I’d be able to tell for sure when I saw Kathleen’s
picture at Shannon’s wedding. Just to make sure I wouldn’t forget
the face, I selected the smallest photo and slipped it into my shirt
pocket. As long as I’d embarked on the slippery slope to
criminality, I might as well add burglary to breaking and entering.

Just as that flippant thought
passed through my mind, a click in the hall made my blood run cold.
Someone had inserted a key into the apartment door lock. I stood
ramrod still and listened, quickly snapping off my keychain light. A
door opened. Someone entered the living room. Lamplight in the living
room made a thin illuminated ribbon down the hallway floor. My knees
grew weak and I feared I would fall to the floor. My clammy hands
started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes stayed riveted on the stream
of light.
What should I do? Where should I go? Will I be caught?

Heavy footsteps headed for the
kitchen. The footsteps of a man. Feeling desperate and in fear of my
life, I searched with my eyes for a place to hide, afraid to move
even an eyelash. Tiptoeing one careful step at a time, I headed for
the closet door. Turning the knob with a sweaty hand, I opened the
door far enough to slip inside, shutting the door completely behind
me. Feeling about and praying nothing would fall to the floor, I
settled behind the densely packed clothes and tried to still my
pounding heart.

I couldn’t hear a thing, but my
imagination went wild. The man was probably opening the refrigerator
and removing a bottle of wine. He’d open the bottle and head for
the shrine to Kathleen. He’d be right outside my hiding place.
What’s that?
Footsteps. He was passing the closet door. A
cough. A sigh. More footsteps heading straight toward the easy chair.
I fought my sudden dizziness and tried to quietly suck in a deep
breath. This was no time to faint.

Abruptly, a thin line of light
appeared almost beneath my feet. The door ended about a half-inch
above the floor. Could he hear me breathing? I could hear his wine
being poured into the glass. And what was that?
Music.
Classical music coming from the stereo. Debussy’s
Claire de
Lune.

More footsteps. What was he
doing? Where was he going? A door opened and then closed. He was in
the bathroom! This was my time to move. I twisted the knob and slowly
opened the closet door, pausing to listen for any activity in the
bathroom. Over the sound of the toilet flushing, I crept out of
hiding and dashed down the hallway toward the other bedroom and my
escape window. Then, without warning, I tripped and fell.

“
Who’s there!”

The man’s voice sounded
alarmed. He was in the hallway. Numb with fright, I froze.
I can’t
be found. I’ll spend the rest of the night behind bars. Maybe the
rest of my life.
I scrambled to my feet and bolted for the
window, as the man’s footsteps raced down the hallway and into the
living room. I fumbled with the heavy draperies, trying to find where
they parted.
There.
Good girl. Stay calm.
I crawled
through the window and onto the narrow fake balcony. With only one
foot touching freedom, I felt the viselike grip of a man’s hand on
my arm. My heart stopped. My breathing stopped.
It’s over.

No. The crowbar.
I reached
for it with my free hand and jammed the sharp end into the man’s
arm. Cursing, he let go just long enough for me to vault the balcony
railing. I dropped two stories to the ground below and landed with a
thud in an overgrown lilac bush. A pain seared my left ankle. Other
than that, I seemed to be in one piece. I threw one hasty glance at
the window above me. My assailant hadn’t attempted to follow me. He
was either on his way down the stairs to come after me or on the
phone to alert the police. I wrestled my way out of the bush and
hobbled as fast as I could through the dark alley.

As I reached the end of the
alleyway and was about to turn toward the safety of the side street
where I’d parked, I saw the lights of a vehicle enter the other end
and stop under the balcony. I loped to my Jeep and within mere
seconds was entering Main Street. Only then did I dare to switch on
the headlights.

Chapter
26

Tuesday—Week
Four

My first thoughts upon waking
were, “No one followed me. No police cars pulled me over. I’m in
my own bed. I’m not behind bars.” I lay perfectly still and
reviewed the most dim-witted thing I had ever done. What had I
accomplished? Absolutely nothing. I had learned that apparently a
grieving father had left his daughter’s apartment as she had lived
in it . . . sort of a living shrine to her where he could toast her
with a glass of wine and think of the good times they’d enjoyed
together and of the events they’d never share, like her wedding and
her children—his never to love grandchildren.

Finally rising from the safety of
my bed, I practically tripped over the heavy black trash bag filled
with my get-away wardrobe. I had emptied my pockets into my catchall
basket on the counter as soon as I’d entered the carriage house
apartment, and then peeled off my clothes and stuffed them into the
bag. I planned to burn them, so there would be nothing to tie me to
the apartment break-in. A long shower had calmed my nerves. I had
wrapped my banged-up ankle in cold packs, treated the cuts from
landing in the bush, and crept into my bed, trying to erase the image
of being one crowbar jab away from time in the slammer.

Barely dressed, I heard my cell
phone ringing and momentarily stiffened. I limped to the dresser to
retrieve the phone and examine the LCD display screen. Anna’s name
and number appeared. “Morning, friend. What’s up?” I said,
sounding overly chipper to hide my guilt.

“
Back atcha,” she said.
“We’ve hit a small glitch, Cassandra. The first craftsman I
called says the beadwork on the boots is similar to his, but it’s
not his work. He’s pretty sure the other guy did the beadwork, but
he doesn’t know how to reach him. If anyone can track him down, I
know Hugo can do it.”

I made small talk with Anna as
best I could. My adrenalin was still too elevated from the night
before to think clearly. “Thanks for your persistence. I appreciate
it and will practice as much patience as I can, until you hear from
him.”

The cold packs, refreshed once
during the night, had worked their magic on my ankle. I had very
little to no swelling. I’d have to favor it for a few days, but
wouldn’t need medical intervention. I gathered a few newspapers and
carried them with the trash bag of evidence to the burn barrel. In a
few minutes, any evidence had gone up in flames. Then I spent the
next ten minutes hosing down my Jeep, to erase any signs of alley
dust. I felt home free from my near debacle of establishing a
criminal record. I decided to keep the apartment escapade to myself.
As long as no one else knew about it, there was little chance of it
coming to light.

I spent most of the morning in my
darkroom and at my computer pouring over the Rendezvous and wedding
pictures, in order to put the least amount of stress on my ankle.
When the phone rang again, I jumped involuntarily. No amount of
fooling myself removed the fear lurking mere millimeters beneath the
surface of my bravado. It was Deputy Shaw’s assistant.

“
Deputy Shaw would like to see
you in his office at two o’clock this afternoon,” she said
curtly. “He wants you to bring a red shirt with you . . . like the
ones you regularly wear.”

“
Do you know what this is
about?” I asked, my chest tightening.

“
No, I don’t. Just bring the
shirt and be here by two o’clock.”

My throat went dry. Shaw had put
two and two together. He knew I was at the farmhouse the night I
photographed Strothers’ vehicle door. Strothers must have filed a
complaint after all. “I’ll be there,” I croaked. How would Shaw
use the information? On the face of it, it didn’t seem like a
chargeable offense. I hadn’t damaged anything. I hadn’t hurt
anyone. Maybe it was another fishing expedition. Maybe it was another
building block in his case against me. I needed to talk to Sanders
about it. Immediately.

Thirty minutes later, I was
sitting across from him in his office. It wasn’t easy for me to
spill the whole story to my attorney, especially since he was Anna’s
brother. I had to go back to square one and tell him about Jack
breaking into Strothers’ office and finding information that
suggested Eric was blackmailing Strothers. After what I had learned
about Jack, I no longer felt the need to protect him. “We decided,
after finding out about the blackmail payments and reviewing the
articles proving a change Eric’s attitude, that Strothers had a
serious motive for killing Eric.” Then I related how he had
accosted me outside Grizzly’s and accused me of telling Marty about
the paint factory.

“
All that occurred right after
someone tried to run me off the road on the rainy day of Randy’s
funeral. I wanted to find out if Strothers was the one who wanted me
in the ditch . . . or worse,” I said, defensively. “When Anna and
I saw his vehicle pass us, we followed him all the way to that farm
somewhere in Timbuktu. Anna thought it was too dangerous to go any
further and we left. But you know me. I couldn’t leave well enough
alone. I returned on my own after dark with my camera. I photographed
the passenger side door. First, I used my red shirt to wipe it clean
of dust, and then stupidly tossed it onto the ground to free up both
hands. Then, being the klutz I am, I fell over in the driveway. I
made just enough noise to alert the men in the house. Strothers came
running outside and almost spotted me. Fortunately, some kid in the
area shot off a few fireworks and that diverted their attention. I
hitched a ride on the back of Strothers’ truck until we were out of
the range of the yard light. Unfortunately, I left the shirt behind
in the driveway.”

Sanders had taken extensive
notes. “After all that, did you find anything incriminating in the
photos?” He gave me a hopeful look, while chewing on the pen.

I iterated how I had connected
the dots, from identifying the logo on Strothers’ vehicle to a on a
truck parked in the Rendezvous parking lot. “It proved the truck
was in the Rendezvous parking lot the day Eric was killed, Lawton.
Because of that, I felt the farmhouse’s escapade was worth it.”