A Rendezvous to Die For (18 page)

Three men obliged.

Then Muskrat took center stage.

“
Now, most of you know one of
the most important things about bein’ a Ronnyvooer is pickin’ a
character. And the second most important is dressin’ that character
in the correct garb.” His gaze took in the three guinea pigs.
“Looks like we got us a trapper, a buckskinner, and a tradesman.
Buckskinner here has done a good job. Nice possibles bag. Knife is
appropriate to the 1830s. But a buckskinner prob’ly wouldn’t wear
Nike hikin’ shoes.”

The hiking shoe comment drew a
laugh from the audience.

“
When yore completin’ the
outfit, look for moccasins, the kind you can lace up to your knee, or
boots of the period. Havin’ the wrong footwear is the mistake that
most people make. When you’re pickin’ a pair of boots, remember
that 1830s boots didn’t have right or left feet. Trapper, yore
lookin’ good, too. You might make it more authentic by carryin’ a
trap and some skins. And, fer God’s sake, be sure you know how to
set those traps without losin’ a finger.” Muskrat chuckled at his
own little joke.

“
See this here tradesman,” he
said, gesturing toward the last man on the stage. “Y’all know you
can tell a lot about a man by lookin’ at his garb. Like his
occupation, his wealth, and social standin’. You see he’s wearin’
a natural-color linen shirt. Pure white cloth was the most expensive
you could buy in the 1830s. Fancy prints are a little cheaper. Next
down the line is stripes, then solid colors, and the cheapest is the
natural color. That’s ‘cause they didn’t have no Clorox bleach,
only lye, so dyin’ fabrics was cheaper. That’s why colors cost
less than white and that’s why our tradesman has chosen natural
linen.” He thumped one of the men on the back. “So, what’s yore
name . . . Bad Eye? We can guess yore jest startin’ out in yore
tradin’ career. Is that a fact?”

Bad Eye nodded. “Yessir, I’m
jes startin’ to bring goods to Rendezvous gatherin’s.”

By now, I was bored and lost in
my own thoughts. I was proud of how Marty had stood up to his
accusers, although it remained to be seen if pugnacity was the best
strategy in light of the serious trouble he was in. One of the most
interesting events of the evening was that my friend Willis had been
appointed the “go to” person for any information that would help
solve the crime. I made a note to keep in close touch with him.

Chapter
17

It was close to 3:40 p.m., when
we emerged from the meeting and began the fifteen-minute drive to my
house. I relaxed against the car cushion, happy to be the passenger
for once. “Marty and Willis seem to have struck up a friendship,”
Anna said, maneuvering out of the parking lot. “Did you notice they
chatted through much of the presentation?”

“
Yes, I noticed,” I said,
hoping that Willis was gathering information from Marty that would
help my own cause. I let my gaze drift lazily along the pine trees
lining the two-lane road, enjoying the scenic ride I sometimes took
for granted as I rushed from one assignment to another.

On a short stretch of straight
road, a vehicle accelerated to pass us. I tensed and jerked to a
straighter position. Anna shot me a quick glance. “Every time a car
passes us, you relive that scary incident you had in the rain, don’t
you?” Her eyes followed the vehicle increasing speed ahead of us.
“Speaking of that incident, Cass, look at the SUV’s license
plate.” She sped up to make the letters more readable. It was a
vanity plate made up of seven capital letters:
strthrs
.
Anna and I looked at each other, our mouths agape. “Are you
thinking what I’m thinking,” she said.

“
Strothers,” I muttered.
“Speaking of the devil. I wish I’d noticed if he had any scratch
marks on the passenger side of his vehicle.”

“
Let’s see where he’s
going, Cass. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” Anna increased her speed
just enough to keep a safe distance behind the vehicle still in easy
sight. Instead of turning toward my house, we continued on the
winding two-lane highway that passed through a wooded area abutting
the river. Ten miles later, the road veered away from the river and
trees and straightened into a narrow ribbon flanking fields of corn
on both sides. The vehicle ahead picked up speed in response to the
straight road.

Anna raised her penciled brows at
me. “What should I do? Keep following him?”

“
If he doesn’t go too much
further, let’s just see how this plays out. Okay?”

Anna speeded up again and we
drove another twelve miles or so. Suddenly, the driver ahead applied
his brakes. He made a screeching right turn onto an unpaved country
road, churning up dust and gravel as he barreled along. We followed
the dust trail for about ten minutes, when it abruptly ended. “Where
did he go?” Anna brought her vehicle to a stop and peered about for
signs of Strothers’ car.

“
He must have turned again,”
I said, craning my neck over my shoulder to see. “He was kicking up
so much dust, we couldn’t see five feet in front of us. There . . .
there he is.” I pointed to Anna’s left. The outline of an SUV was
barely discernable, before it vanished over the rise of a hill.

Following more carefully now, we
finally came to another stop by a narrow driveway marked by a
dilapidated mailbox perched precariously on a rotting wooden post.
“Guess there’s a house out here somewhere,” I said, “but it’s
anyone’s guess. No numbers or name on the box.”

“
We’d be fools to go up that
driveway, Cassandra. No telling what we’d find. If we’re chasing
a killer, I don’t want to put either of us at risk. What should I
do?”

I kept my eyes glued to the long
driveway, wondering what was at the other end and why Strothers was
out in Timbuktu. For a big city guy, that seemed peculiar, to say the
least. “I think you should turn around and head for home, Anna.
We’d be crazy to purposely put ourselves at risk. At the very
least, we’d embarrass ourselves, if it turns out Strothers is
simply having supper with friends.”

Anna made a U-turn and headed the
car in the direction we’d come. “I’m surprised you’re giving
in without arguing about it first, Cass. Your common sense is in
charge.”

After
she dropped me off at the carriage house, I went into a funk. I
microwaved myself a frozen Lean Cuisine supper, visited the bathroom,
shuffled through the mail, and continuously watched the clock. I put
a load of dirty towels in the washing machine, cleaned up the laundry
room and could not shake the feeling that Strothers was not dining
with friends.

More than three hours passed. It
was daylight saving time, so dusk was definitely delayed. At 9:20
p.m., my adrenaline was still pumping and I knew I wouldn’t be able
to get to sleep. I had to do something. Anna and I had been mere
minutes away from learning whether or not the elusive Strothers had
used his vehicle to shove me off the highway in a storm.

Without thinking any further and
possibly discouraging myself from taking action, I grabbed my small
digital camera and clipped it onto a strap around my neck. I buttoned
one of my red shirts over my tank top, dashed down the stairs to the
garage, and climbed into my Jeep. “This is simply too good an
opportunity to pass up,” I told myself. Checking out the SUV would
either confirm or eliminate it as the car that had tried to feed me
to the Oxbow fishes.

Not even the fleeting thought
that Strothers may be long gone squelched my determination to
investigate. I refused to listen to warnings that he could very well
meet me on that deserted country road. I knew I didn’t have much
time to find the right turnoffs before it was completely dark. I
glanced at the dashboard clock. It was already 9:45 and the sun was
slipping behind the horizon. I followed the route Anna and I had
taken earlier, congratulating myself for having a photographic
memory. I slowed when I neared the well-hidden driveway. Since the
road was not visible from what I assumed would be a farm, I saw no
need to cut my headlights, but I put them on low beam. About a
quarter mile past the driveway, I found a bumpy farm road heading
into a field. I parked the Jeep behind a row of bushes that had long
ago been planted as a windbreak and trekked back to where the
driveway loomed out of the now-complete darkness. It was now 10:25.

Nervousness prickled continuously
at the back of my neck, competing with the adrenaline still coursing
full speed through my veins to keep my on edge. Skulking around at
night was not my style, and the usual angel on my shoulder seemed to
have deserted me. I didn’t care. I’d been robbed in a break-in,
purposely pushed off the road, and verbally threatened. I was
snatching at what might be my only chance to get something solid on
Strothers that I could take to Deputy Shaw.

I shined the woefully inadequate
laser light from my keychain on the driveway and then swept the area
round me. Ditches on both sides were filled with grassy weeds about
waist high, but other than these grasses, there was precious little
cover. I inched up the driveway, praying that whoever lived at the
end didn’t have guard dogs. I hoped, too, that the exercise wasn’t
in vain . . . that the vehicle had not left in the time it took me to
drive home and back again.

Topping the knoll where I’d
seen the SUV disappear, I thought I saw the outline of a house. While
covering another ten yards, I peered through the moonlit darkness
surrounding it, searching for the object of my mission. Bingo! There
it was, as big as life, parked directly in front of the dilapidated
porch. My heart leaped to my throat. Was anyone outside? Was anyone
watching me? My camera bumped against my chest with every step I
took. A beam of light from a window illuminated a few feet of the
yard. If not for the darkness surrounding me, I would be in plain
sight of anyone from the house. What should I do? Run directly for
the SUV, take my pictures, and head back to my Jeep? Be more
cautious. Take a risk? Check out who was in the house with Strothers?

I took a quick survey of the
property. The house was dominated by the sizeable barn a hundred feet
or so to the left. I could barely make out a pickup truck and
assorted machinery that littered the yard surrounding it. Although
the driveway had no cover, trees and shrubs of various sizes peppered
the farmyard. To reach that sparse cover, I’d have to negotiate a
no-man’s land of empty space. I squatted on my heels. I needed a
clear head. The good news was that, so far, no patrolling dogs had
announced my presence.

I could make out a figure
repeatedly passing in front of the window. I surmised there were at
least two people in the house. Who was the other person? Did I need
to know? I had come to check out the SUV and to photograph any
potential damage. It was a powerful magnet, teasing me to proceed in
spite of my reluctance. What to do.
What to do!

Without another thought, I
sprinted toward the yard, gasping as I skidded behind an ungroomed
bush. On my knees and as still as a stone, I collected my thoughts
and listened. The front door was open. Angry voices carried through
the night air to the outside. I crept closer and found refuge behind
a lilac bush next to the porch. I moved a branch just far enough to
peek through the leaves at the doorway. A man was seated at a table.
I could only make out his outline. There. Another man. He seemed
familiar, but I couldn’t place where I’d seen him. He was older
and dressed in farmer jeans held up by red suspenders . . .
considerably overweight.

I peered through the leaves,
wishing I dared to take a few pictures. Suddenly, another man
appeared, pacing back and forth in front of the table. He smacked the
palm of his hand for emphasis and raised his voice. I clutched my
throat. I’d know that voice anywhere.
Strothers.

What
was he saying? He’d been in the house for several hours. What was
going down? It didn’t seem like a friendly meeting.

Once more, I scouted the area
around me. Did I dare creep onto the porch to hear the conversation?
What would the men do to me, if they learned of my presence? The SUV
was fully exposed, but the side that may have come into contact with
my Jeep was on the far side of the house. If Strothers’ vehicle had
rammed me off the road, there should be some evidence of it—red
paint or, at the very least, scratches. I’d have to wipe off the
door first. It would be covered in dust from the road. It would be
challenging to photograph the side of the car in the extremely
low-light conditions. As close as I’d be to the car door, even if I
used a flash at all, all I’d end up with would be an overexposed
blob.

Once more, I weighed my options.
Creep onto the porch and listen to the conversation. Creep to the
SUV, take my photos, and leave. Common sense ruled again. I
unbuttoned my red shirt, slowly removed it, and wadded it into a
ball. I’d have to use it as the rag to clean off the car door. I
shivered, even though it was in the sixties . . . a not untypical
late June evening in Minnesota. Using my laser light, I set my camera
for low-light, close-up shooting. Then, checking to ensure no one was
about to come into the yard, I tiptoed toward the vehicle. With every
careful step, gravel crunched under my shoes, bringing me to the
brink of a heart attack. I knelt next to the passenger side door and
rubbed my wadded-up shirt across the door panel as hard as I could.
It was too dark to tell if there were any scratches or red paint. I’d
have to take the photos and hope it showed up on film. I dropped the
filthy shirt to the ground, lifted the camera into position, aimed
it, and pushed the shutter. To my edgy sense of sound, the click
seemed unnaturally loud. I held my breath and waited several seconds.
When nothing happened, I clicked off three more shots.