A Rendezvous to Die For (10 page)

“
And when you got
there, you found him—”

“
Dead. I found him
dead,
Anna.” The wailing sound of my voice startled me, but I continued
with my rising tirade. “He had a knife in his back! Why would
anyone want to kill him? He was a shy, hardworking guy who helped the
community by driving an ambulance.”

Anna patted my
hands. “It’s . . . unimaginable. What do the police think?”

“
Two murders in
Clayton County within four days and
I
turn
up at both of them?” I pushed myself to a standing position, but
feeling weak-kneed, slumped onto my chair again. “What else could
the police think, but that
I’m
the perp!”

“
Did
they actually say that, Cassandra, or are you reading something into
their questioning, because you’re, understandably, upset?”

“
They didn’t
have to say, ‘you’re the lying perp,’” I said, weary to the
bones. “I could tell by their questions and the way they handled me
that I was the only one on their radar.” I swiped the tears from my
eyes with still shaking fingers.

Anna looked puzzled.
“By the way they
handled
you? Did they mistreat you? Didn’t
Lawton—”

“
No, no . . . they
didn’t have the opportunity to do any serious mistreating, thanks
to Lawton. He arrived just in time. I’ll be forever grateful to
him. And to you, of course, for having an attorney for a brother.”

“
What will you do
now?”

I shrugged. “Would
you believe it, Anna? I have all the law enforcement in Clayton
County on my back. First, I had only Deputy Shaw, with the sheriff’s
department. Now, the city police are going investigate me, too.” I
pushed my chair away from the table and rose to a standing position.
This time, my knees clicked into place. I paced back and forth, while
thinking of my strategy. “I can’t simply wring my hands and let
things happen willy-nilly. It would drive me crazy. I’ve got to
find out what’s going on in this town. Someone has a serious
grudge.”

Anna pursed her lips
and wiggled them from side to side while she thought about my
outburst. “Is that wise, Cassandra?” she asked, finally. “Isn’t
it better to leave this to the professionals? They can’t charge you
with anything until they have proof. That’s the way the court
system operates.”

I stared out the
kitchen window at a robin that was returning to its nest after
finding the early worm. She was free to go wherever she pleased,
whenever she pleased. “You have no idea how it feels to be in my
position,” I said.

“
No, I don’t, so
I shouldn’t be offering advice.” Anna managed a tight smile. “For
at least a few hours today, however, you should close the blinds,
turn off your phones, and try to get some sleep. You can think better
when you’re rested.”

I rolled my eyes, a
habit I’d developed only recently. “Yeah, sure, after all this
coffee I just downed.”

She took my arm and
guided me to my bedroom. After pushing me onto the rumpled bed, she
grinned. “I brought you decaf . . . and I may have dropped a little
something more into it. It should begin working within the next few
minutes.”

* * *

By
the time I awoke from Anna’s drug-induced sleep, it was already
2:00 in the afternoon. I wasted no time in continuing my private
investigation.
I set out to find Jack.

His somber demeanor was unlike
the Jack Gardner I’d seen in the last couple of weeks.

“
I’m
. . . well, I can’t adequately express how I feel. I’m beside
myself with grief.” He hurled a bridle onto a tack room hook. When
it hit its mark with a plunk, he cast a fleeting glance my way. “I’m
sorry as hell you had to be the one to find him, Cass.”

I shrugged and nodded, waiting
for him to continue.

“
Try as hard as I can, I can’t
come up with anyone who’d want to hurt Randy, let alone kill him.”
He hung his head and scrubbed his forehead with restless fingers. “He
didn’t have an enemy in the world. None that I know of anyway.”

“
How well did you know Randy?”
I paced the stable floor, pausing to kick at a few hay bales. From
the sides of my eyes, I observed Jack. Since I wasn’t an expert in
body language, his grief appeared entirely authentic.

His stricken gaze met mine. “We
played the same rodeos a few times. He’d gotten to where he almost
always finished in the money.” He stomped his foot and pulled off
his cowboy hat. “Damn! What a despicable thing to happen to him.”

“
I don’t suppose you’ve
heard any particulars from your law-enforcement connections.”

He smacked his hat against the
stable door and then fiddled with the brim. “As a matter of fact, I
did. This morning.” He glanced at me again. “You already know
that Randy was stabbed in the back. They think the knife was thrown
from across the room and he probably never knew what hit him. It has
something to do with the angle of the blade and the deepness of
penetration.”

I stuffed my hands into the
pockets of my jeans. “Any sign of a struggle?”

“
Probably not.”

“
Robbery perhaps?”

“
Who would know if anything is
missing? He drove the ambulance part time for a job, so he barely
made a living.” He wiped his forehead with a bandana pulled from
his back pocket. “His entire net worth was probably his saddle and
the chaps and trophies he won while on tour.”

I kicked at the loose straw on
the floor of the stables. “I don’t suppose you found out anything
more about the weapon?”

Jack grabbed a brush and began
forcefully brushing a mare that had been tied in the aisle between
stalls. “Only that it was handmade and old. A hunting knife.” He
flipped the horse’s mane out of the way as he agitatedly groomed
her.

I leaned across the horse’s
back. “You say the knife was old. Old, as in, say a 1950’s kind
of old?”

Jack stopped brushing. “More
like an 1850’s kind of old.” He peered directly at me for the
first time. “Have they been interviewing you, too?”

“
Interviewing? I’d say more
like grilling. I’m their prime suspect.”

“
Damn, Cass, I’m so sorry.”

“
I’m sorry, too,” I said,
suddenly straightening and raising my voice. “I’m sorry that a
so-called friend of mine sent me over to a murder victim’s house!”

Jack’s head jerked toward me.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“
I’ll leave that to your own
interpretation,” I said, turning to leave.

Like
everyone else in Colton Mills, I triple-checked my locks that night
and seriously entertained the idea of buying myself a Rottweiler.

Chapter
10

Saturday

I was out of bed by 6:30 the next
morning and went right to work on my weight machine. As I had told
Deputy Shaw, it takes muscle to haul around lenses and heavy
photographic equipment. In addition to maintaining and even building
muscle, the workout produced the endorphins necessary for sanity. On
my mind throughout the entire sweat-session was the fact that it had
been almost a week since the beginning of the worse week of my life.

It was hard to imagine
photographing a wedding, with everything that had happened. The idea
of calling in “sick” quickly passed though. It wasn’t Lori’s
fault her photographer was up to her ears in two murder
investigations. I’d made a commitment to do her wedding and I would
follow through. I checked and rechecked my gear and drove the now
familiar route to Patriot Stables. I took several standard wedding
shots before the ceremony—if you call “standard” posing the
bride and groom against the front of a horse stall while cuddling
their horse’s head between them. That done, I schlepped around the
ranch with my camera, photographing family members and the bridal
party on bales of hay, by the white-painted fence, and in other sites
I’d previously identified.

The wedding itself was to take
place on a strip of land that had been carved out of the ranch by the
Oxbow Creek when it cut through a slice of the property on two sides.
A grove of cottonwood trees had grown up there and formed a
picturesque site, especially with the covered wooden bridge, which
allowed visitors access to the location. It was definitely a
Minnesota summer-perfect spot. I’d photographed lots of theme
weddings and this was one of the more fully realized ones. Guests
whom had paid close attention to the invitation, which encouraged
“casual cowboy dress,” perched on bales of hay. Those who didn’t
used folding chairs.

Living in small-town Colton Mills
and photographing costumed affairs sometimes made me feel as if I
were in a time warp. But, I’d wanted to get as far away as possible
from the Big Apple, and to that end, I’d succeeded.

As I zeroed in on some of Lori’s
western-themed touches—a horseshoe archway, a pair of saddles
flanking the entrance, bandanas on the chairs—I could hear my
city-born-and-bred photographer mentor groan at the idea of
participating in such a kitschy event. But artistic New
York-training-be-damned, I’d been enjoying my Colton Mills career.
As a foster kid, I was used to being the perennial outsider, so
photography suited me perfectly. I could mingle among people as an
integral part of the event, but be separate at the same time. That’s
the way I liked it.

As usual, the guests murmured
among themselves as they were seated, their chatter playing in the
background like elevator music. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I
realized the conversation had taken on an entirely different cast.
Instead of commenting about the weather, the bride, and the occasion,
they were chatting about Randy’s murder . . . and I was the center
of attention. I caught the gaze of a gray-haired lady guest, as she
whispered behind her hand to her friend and my heart skipped a beat.
I turned away, pretending to snap another photo over her shoulder.

A rare sense of panic swelled
inside my chest. If the murders were not solved soon, I may not have
a professional life. Thankfully, before my wild thoughts could stifle
my ability to focus on the wedding, I ceased to be the center of
attention.
I heard the Cowpokes’ rousing rendition of “Boot
Scootin’ Boogie,” and over the music the pounding hooves of a
horse. The groom, decked out in a white western tux, with black boots
and Stetson, circled his black Arabian around the entire site
containing the seated wedding guests. He trotted to the front, made a
spectacular 360-degree spin, dismounted with a flourish, and strode
into position before the altar. It was one of the more dramatic
entrances I’d seen, and I scrambled to get it all on film.

When the band switched to “Love
Can Build a Bridge,” the attendants strolled up the aisle in their
Western dress and the wedding was under way. With the strains of
“Here Comes the Bride,” the guests turned heads to take in the
bride’s entrance. I was stunned to see that Jack was leading the
white mare holding Lori, who was seated sidesaddle in her Victorian
wedding dress. Lori’s father strode next to the horse and smiled up
at his equally beaming daughter.

I was continuously on the move
for the next several minutes, snapping pictures of the ceremony and
guests from every angle. I sustained this pace into the evening at
the country club reception, where the cowboy theme continued. The
Cowpokes belted out country-western two-steps and waltzes for at
least two hours. I went through the process automatically, but with
an edge of nervousness I hadn’t previously experienced. Clearly, I
was a subject of interest.

When
I finally packed up my gear, it was late and I was both physically
and mentally exhausted. I stowed everything in my Jeep and headed for
home. A long, hot shower would feel divine. As I pulled up to the
carriage house, I punched the remote to open the garage door. Nothing
happened.
Damn!
What a night for the opener to fail.
I
parked and strode to the side door, feeling slightly irritated that
my homecoming wasn’t as welcoming as I’d wanted it to be. Feeling
around for the lock, I cursing myself for not turning on the deck
light before I had left the house. Then I remembered the little laser
light on my keychain and trained it on the door.

Without warning, my heart was
drumming against by ribs as my mouth turned dry as a year-old deer
bone. I swallowed the gagging lump in my throat. The door was already
open! Not only open, but also the wood was splintered around the
lock.
Someone has broken into my garage.

The hairs on the back of my neck
bristled as I dashed back to my car and locked the doors. That
“someone” could still be in the garage, hiding in the dark. I
whipped out my cell phone and started to punch in 911, but my fingers
refused to make the connection. The idea of inviting the police to my
place had me paralyzed. There would be more questions. More stares.
More silent accusations. I sat perfectly still for several minutes.
Thinking. Thinking and searching every inch of the property outside
my confines with restless eyes.
I’ll have to handle the
situation myself.