A Rendezvous to Die For (24 page)

He reached into his desk drawer
and whipped out my dirty shirt. There was no mistaking that it was
mine. Holding it up in front of him, he said, “I believe this is
yours. You left it behind after following me to a farm house out in
the country a couple nights ago.” His eyes blazed with anger.

“
What makes you think that’s
my red shirt,” I asked, willing myself to speak evenly.

“
You’re well known for
wearing red shirts, Miss Cassidy. Several people have told me that.
It was found in the driveway of a farmhouse where my truck had been
parked. It had been used to wipe dirt off the door of my vehicle.”

I didn’t trust myself to
respond, so I remained quiet.

“
I’m note interested in
playing games with you.” He threw the shirt aside and placed his
palms flat on the desk. “I want to know what the hell you were
doing at that farm in the middle of the night!”

If I had learned anything in the
years since Mrs. A taught me the value of verbal bravado, it was that
the best defense is a good offense. I followed my instincts and
fought back. “You’re making some strong assumptions, Mr.
Strothers. Dozens of people in this township wear red shirts. I have
a couple questions of my own, since you seem so determined to scare
me with strong-man tactics.” I scooted to the edge of my chair and
glared at him with equal intensity. “Were you paying Eric Hartfield
to write favorable things about you and your company?” The question
spilled out of my mouth before I could stop myself. I wasn’t sure
what he expected me to ask him, but that wasn’t it. It took a few
seconds for the question to register in his mind. I thought he would
erupt out of the chair and attack me for the second time, but he sat
quietly gazing at me.

“
That is a very serious, very
loaded question, Miss Cassidy.” Rubbing his hands together in front
of him, he brought them to his face and tapped the fingers against
his tightened lips. “Where on earth did you get that idea?”

“
I noticed that Eric’s
articles abruptly changed from being quite adamantly critical about
the Bridgewater Land Development Company to praising it, about a year
ago.”

“
And from that observation you
made a jump in logic to thinking there was a payoff involved? What a
quaint conclusion.” Strothers chuckled and shook his head. “You
couldn’t be more wrong.” He pushed himself away from his desk and
strode around it to stand beside me. I thought he was about to attack
me again, but he reached out to cup my chin in his hand. “Once Eric
Hartfield had done his homework, he saw that my company was a benefit
to the area. That’s when he started to support me.” He had
adopted corporate-speak. “It’s that simple, my dear. There is no
conspiracy here.” He patted my cheek and returned to his desk
chair.

I rubbed my cheek. “Then you
and Eric were good friends?”

“
We were never good friends. We
were mutually respectful professionals.”

I was in pretty deep already and
decided to go for broke. “Did you go to the Rendezvous to meet with
Eric?”

He opened his mouth and, at
first, no sound emerged. Then he snapped, “What Rendezvous are you
talking about?”

“
The Rendezvous where Eric was
killed. Two weeks ago.”

“
I’ve never gone to one of
those hokey things in my life,” he said, his voice icy. His eyes
narrowed. “And I don’t like the sound of what you’re implying,
Miss Cassidy.”

“
Your truck was parked at the
Rendezvous on the day Eric was killed.”

“
And you, Miss Detective, are
making another unbelievable insinuation to support your cockamamie
speculations. Exactly how do you know my company truck was there? Did
someone tell you that, or did you see it yourself?” His gaze bored
into mine. “For the sake of argument, we’ll assume the truck was
there.” He raised his voice and spoke slowly, emphasizing every
word as though I were a dummy. “Did it never occur to you that my
employees
also
drive my truck?”

I pressed on. “Do you know who
was driving it that day?”

“
If I did know—and I’m not
saying I do—it’s none of your damn business who was driving my
truck!”

I willed my eyes not to waver.
“It could become the sheriff’s business, if he inquires about who
left your truck in the Rendezvous parking lot the same day Eric was
killed.”

“
And who’s going to give the
sheriff a reason to ask that question? You? Or have you already?”

“
I’ll keep that information
to myself, Mr. Strothers,” I said, lowering my voice.

“
I’m beginning to get the
picture here.” Strothers studied his fingernails. “You followed
me to the farmyard, because you have developed some outrageous theory
that I’m connected to Eric Hartfield’s murder, in order to save
your own neck. Is that it?” His fist banged on the desk. “What
the hell were you trying to prove?”

I flinched, but continued. “Did
you try to run me off the road on the day of Randy Pearce’s
funeral?”

Strothers threw his hands into
the air and stared at me, clearly dumbfounded. I could see him fight
to keep his temper in check. His eyes were blazing. “You live a
dangerous life for a small-town wedding photographer,” he said.
“You’ve made some amazing accusations that I take very seriously.
Where your suppositions come from is beyond my comprehension.”

“
I’m not— ”

“
Not another word! Hear me
out!” The jaw muscles worked behind his tanned cheeks. “Obviously,
you have decided to remain mum about why your shirt ended up in my
driveway.” He reached for the red evidence. “That being the case,
I have no choice but to deliver it to the sheriff. I doubt you will
be sharing the contents of the note I sent you with him, as it will
implicate you in whatever you were doing in that farmyard.”

“
But— ”

“
That’s all! You can go now.”
He swiveled his chair away from me. “Close the door behind you.”

I fled his office, breathing a
sigh of relief to know I was still in one piece. If Strothers wasn’t
an enemy of mine before, he was certainly one after my performance.
What was I thinking, to ask him such loaded questions? By tipping my
hand, I had worsened my own position. I dreaded what would happen if
and when the shirt ended up in Shaw’s hands. How could I explain my
stupidity in driving out to that farmhouse!

I went back into my darkroom,
turned on the safe light, and cracked open a roll of exposed film. I
pulled the strip out of its last chemical bath and hung it up to dry.
Too nervous to stay and work, I headed toward my second office.

“
Hey,
Cassandra,” Roxy said, pulling out a paper cup. “Tall or extra
tall today?”

“
Make it extra tall, iced, to
go.” I was still shaking. “Better make that decaf today.”

She placed the coffee on the
counter. “I hear you had some trouble out at your house.”

“
How did you hear that?”

“
Well, we
do
live in a small town,” she said with an impish smile.

“
You’re right about that.”

She leaned her forearms on the
counter. “How’s Marty doing with all this?”

“
Marty?” Lately, I seemed to
be getting all the sympathy of chopped liver. “Marty’s been out
of town. It was
my
place that got hit.”

“
I meant to say, how was
Marty’s trip?”

“
He didn’t say anything about
his trip.” I sipped my coffee. “Should he have? I assumed he was
taking or picking someone up with his helicopter.” She swiped the
already clean counter with a cloth. Her mouth opened to speak, but
didn’t. Curious, I prompted her. “Do you know where he went,
Roxy?”

“
I’ve gotten to know Marty
pretty well in the last couple of years,” she said, hedging and,
apparently, debating whether to tell me more. “He’s a regular
here, like yourself.”

I nodded and sipped at my coffee.

“
Anyway,” she said, seeming
to make up her mind to go on. “Do you know the story about his wife
and son leaving him while he was in Viet Nam?”

I nodded. “That had to be
thirty-forty years ago.”

“
His boy would be middle-aged
by now, but every so often Marty will get a lead about where his
family members might be. If he can, he’ll follow up.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Is that
what he was doing?”

“
Someone told him about meeting
a guy—a pilot—in Kansas City, who reminded him of Marty.
Apparently, Marty thought there was enough about this sighting to
investigate.”

“
He told me the sheriff called
him to come home after the house was fire-bombed.”

“
That probably means it was
another dead end.” She sighed and turned away from me to wait on a
new customer.

I returned to my Jeep. It was an
interesting story. Or, possibly, an elaborate cover-up.

I
stopped at the Burger Barn, picked up a hamburger to go with my
coffee, and drove to the roadside park along the Oxbow. The river
lapped gently against the bank and my mind drifted back to the
conversation I’d just had with Roxy.

Marty was an enigma. He’d dodged Viet Cong bullets and, now, he
piloted a helicopter stateside for medical trips. A rough, tough guy,
he wasn’t easily intimidated. It appeared, however, that Marty was
still locked into his past, fixated on events that had occurred
nearly forty years ago. What kind of person could not let go and move
on? Had this tragic experience eaten at him so long that he’d lost
perspective and finally taken his bitterness out on Eric? How about
Randy and Jim? Or, did it have to do with the land development and
hunting issues?
I was no better
at practicing psychology than at impersonating a detective.

One thing for sure, my experience
with Strothers had convinced me it was time to take steps to protect
myself. Luckily, I had a date with Jack at the gun range.

I
noticed only one other shooter, who was stationed at the far end of
the range when we arrived. I loaded my weapon as Jack had taught me,
assumed the proper stance, and pulled the trigger.

“
Not bad,” Jack said,
grinning. “You almost hit it that time!” I glared at him for
pointing out my less-than-stellar attempts at drilling a human being
in the head or chest. He took possession of the handgun to
demonstrate what was wrong with my technique. Holding it with two
hands, he showed me how to sight down the short barrel and slowly
squeeze the trigger, not “pull” it as I had been doing. I
followed his instructions, and after a half hour was hitting the
target more often that I was missing it.

While getting ready to load
another round, I saw the shooter out of the corner of my eye,
apparently finished and coming our way to reach the exit. I waited
for him to pass by and then a double take. He caught my eye and
turned his face abruptly away, striding more briskly through the
exit. Not quickly enough. Not before I saw the red suspenders holding
up his farmer jeans.

“
Cass, you’re not paying
attention,” Jack complained.

I grabbed hold of his shirtfront
and started to babble, feeling my excitement rise. “Jack, I swear
the man who just left the range is the guy who followed me in the
park on Sunday.”

“
Can’t be,” he said
dismissively. “That’s Ned Obregon. He’s been a farmer around
here forever.”

“
Where does he live?”

“
Out in the country somewhere.
He’s a farmer, for cryin’ out loud.”

“
But
where
?”

He threw up his hands. “I’ll
find out for you. Practice squeezing the trigger, and I’ll be right
back.” He left to talk with someone inside the building. He wasn’t
gone long. “It’s just as I thought. That was Ned, all right. He
lives out on Coyote Road.”

“
Jack, Coyote Road isn’t far
from where I live.”

“
Living somewhere near you does
not mean he’s going to follow you into the woods.”

I hadn’t told Jack about my
nocturnal visit to photograph Strothers’ vehicle, so he had no way
of knowing I had another frame of reference. I was sure the man who
had just left the range was the same man who had not only followed
me, but who was in the farmhouse with Strothers. I fixed my gaze on
his and spoke with conviction. “I can’t tell you how I know,
Jack, but I’m confident that man works for Strothers. He
has
been following me, and he may be the one who threw the firebomb
at my house.”

“
Cass, I think you’re wrong
on this one.”

“
Humor me, Jack. Let’s follow
him and see where he goes.”

Jack sighed wearily, threw our
shooting gear into his bag, and strode beside me out to his truck
without further comment. Ned’s pickup was leaving the parking lot
as we exited the store. Once in Jack’s truck, we followed it at a
safe distance as it lumbered down the street and turned onto County
Road 18. About a mile down the road, it turned into the parking lot
of Leo’s Bar.