A Rendezvous to Die For (7 page)

* * *

Wednesday

Lawton Sanders called me bright
and early Wednesday morning with jarring news I could have done
without. “Deputy Sheriff Shaw would like to interview you again,”
he said. “Today.”

I slumped against the wall of my
kitchen. “That guy doesn’t sit well with me. Do I have to go?”

“
I’m afraid you do,” he
said. “I’ll be there, too. Shaw asked for a meeting this
afternoon. Is that too soon for you?”

I sighed. “No, that’s fine.
Let’s get it over with.”

This
time, the police had managed to free up a regular interrogation room.
No more questioning in the basement bomb shelter. However, the more
conventional surroundings didn’t make Deputy Sheriff Shaw any more
pleasant. He greeted us curtly and launched right into his questions.
“Did you know where your landlord, Mr. Madigan, kept his
tomahawks?” He chewed on the inside of his bottom lip.

“
No, sir,” I said.

“
You said you observed him
throwing tomahawks in his backyard prior to the tournament. Is that
right?”

“
Yes, sir. I did see him
practice with a couple the first day I met him, but I was focused on
the possibility of—”

“
Then you’re saying you
did
know about his tomahawk throwing.” Shaw nibbled on the inside of
his left cheek this time.

“
Not really. Not to the extent
you—” I glanced at Sanders, who barely nodded.

“
And you live directly next
door to Mr. Madigan, on the same property. Is that correct?”

“
Yes, sir.”

“
So, theoretically, you would
have access to his tomahawks, since he stores them outside his
dwelling and in a shed near the carriage house.”

“
Well, theoretically, I
suppose.” I glanced at Sanders again and wished he would stop the
questioning.

Shaw flipped to another page on
his notepad. “Did you know Mr. Madigan would be at the Rendezvous?”

“
How could I have known that,
if I never saw him and hadn’t talked with him since the day I
signed the lease for my apartment?”

Shaw slapped the table with his
hand. “
I
ask the questions, Miss Cassidy. I repeat, did you
know he would be at the Rendezvous?”

“
No, sir, I didn’t.”

“
Did you acquire a list of the
participants in the ‘hawk-throwing competition?”

“
When I entered the gate of the
Rendezvous, I was given a schedule of events and locations.”

“
Then you
did
know your landlord would be a tomahawk-throwing participant.”

“
No
,”
I countered. “The participants’ names were listed in their
Rendezvous character names. I had no idea what his Rendezvous name
was . . . or anyone else’s.”

Shaw made a notation on his
clipboard. “You’ve photographed Indians for several years,
haven’t you?”

“
Yes, sir.”

“
Ever photograph Indians
throwing tomahawks?”

“
Not that I remember, but—”

“
Is this your photo?” He held
up an eight-by-ten photo.

I took the picture from him and
studied it. “It could be.”

“
And what is the subject of the
photo?”

“
An Indian throwing a
tomahawk.”

“
Now do you remember where and
when you took it?” The look on Shaw’s face indicated I’d better
remember, or else.

“
I photograph many Indians at
many events. This one . . . escapes my mind.”

“
It escapes your mind.” Shaw
made a few more notes on his clipboard and peered up at me without
moving his head. “How well do you know Frank Kyopa, the head of the
Prairie River Band, Miss Cassidy?”

I glanced at Sanders, who was
scribbling notes of his own. Shaw’s question had startled me. “I
. . . I see him fairly often at the Indian events I attend, and I’ve
photographed him a few times.”

“
And . . . how would you
characterize your relationship?”

“
No ‘relationship,’” I
said. “I know him enough to greet him, if we’re at the same
event, and to photograph him at the various public events we attend.
He would recognize who I am and he has purchased some of my
photographs.”

“
Don’t you know him well
enough to testify on his behalf . . .
against
Eric Hartfield?”

I sighed inwardly, hating for my
interrogator to see me feeling rattled. I shouldn’t be surprised
that he had done his homework. Expecting more questions about my
court testimony, I fidgeted with the ring on my right hand, glad that
my shaking hands were hidden under the table. “Can you explain to
me how your hair was found on Hartfield’s body?”

“
My hair
couldn’t
have been on Eric’s body!” I said, literally sputtering.

Now Shaw had my attorney’s
attention. Sanders peered closely at the deputy. “You’ve got
proof, I assume?”

“
Initial investigation strongly
suggests it’s Miss Cassidy’s,” Shaw said. “We’ll know the
results when the lab work comes in.” Shaw pushed back his chair and
slammed his notebook closed. “We are still in the investigative
phase, Miss Cassidy, but I’d strongly suggest you don’t leave
town. Our questioning isn’t over. Not by a long shot.” He glanced
briefly at Sanders and left the room.

I rubbed my temples. A massive
headache was already in progress. “Do you have any idea what that
was all about, Lawton? I felt like I was on trial.”

Sanders packed up his notes.
“He’s definitely playing hardball,” he said. “But I think
he’s fishing.”

His reassuring words offered
small comfort. Feeling decidedly defeated, I shuffled out of the
police station, feeling for all the world like an already convicted
felon.

* * *

Running full speed on my
treadmill, an hour later, somewhat calmed me down. At least enough to
think rationally. I had run the interview through my mind several
times. Things weren’t looking good for me. The only thing I had
going for me was that Shaw hadn’t yet arrested me. Nevertheless, I
was still free to figure out the real killer. I had to find out more
about Marty. That was a given. Anna had told me his wife had left
him, never to be heard from again. In light of recent events, I
wondered if she had left him, or if he had something to do with her
turning up missing. The idea that Marty may not be the victim in his
wife’s disappearance, but the one who caused it intrigued me. If he
could do in his wife and son, he could certainly kill Eric. But why?
What could his motive possibly be? Motive was key.

After clocking five miles, I
still hadn’t come up with a plausible way to conduct my
investigation. I wasn’t accustomed to snooping into people’s
lives, but my own was at stake. I’d have to get over any reticence
I had.

Jack,
of all people, gave me my first lead. I was pretty sure that I hadn’t
heard the last of him. I had opened too many opportunities for him to
insert himself into a murder investigation, especially when the
female who hadn’t responded positively to his charms was knee-deep
in the outcome. His call came as soon as I hopped off the treadmill.

”
Hey, Cassandra, are you still
trying to find out what you can about your landlord, Marty?”

“
Well, yes, I guess so,” I
said.

“
I might be able to help you
out.” Jack sounded cheery and confident.

“
You know him?”

“
Not personally, but my friend
Randy works with him in the city’s emergency services department.
He’s told me that Marty has a hot temper. I’ll set up a meeting
with him tomorrow, if you want.”

“
That would be great, Jack.
Thanks. And Jack . . . let’s tell anyone I’m doing this. All
right with you?”

“
Sure. No problem. I aim to
please.”

Chapter
7

Thursday

I woke up the next
morning drenched in perspiration again. I had experienced the same
dream that had plagued me for years. I was being carried, kicking and
screaming from a fire. The fire was so real, I could feel the heat
and smell the smoke. I could even feel the rawness in my throat from
crying and breathing deadly fumes.

As a child, I would
wake up crying when the dream came. Now, I wake up in a sweat,
relieved to know it’s only a dream. I would keep the dream in the
“fantasy” category, except the scar on my neck continuously
reminds me that the fire may not be only in my imagination. Even
though no one has ever said, “I know a fire separated you from your
parents,” I know I’ll never get the dream to go away until,
someday, I smoke out the story behind it.

But not today. And
probably not tomorrow. I was used to me the way I was. If I threw
real parents into the mix, I’d have to recreate myself . . . again.

I was drinking my
second cup of coffee, trying to put my dream behind me, when Lawton
Sanders rang my doorbell. “Cassandra, the sheriff’s department
has issued a warrant to search your house,” he said.

“
When and what
for?”

“
They’re
searching for anything that might help them in their investigation. I
advise you to cooperate with them.”

“
Can I expect to
see the deputy sheriff from hell again?”

Sanders gave me a
stern look. “Don’t underestimate Deputy Shaw, Cassandra. His kind
can be very dangerous.”

“
Why’s that?”

His frown deepened
and his gaze became more intense. “A low-ranking, but ambitious
law-enforcement officer looks forward to making his reputation on a
case such as yours. He may be much more aggressive than seasoned
members of the force and read much more into so-called evidence that
he uncovers. The police humiliated him when they put him in the
basement for your initial interview. He’s got a lot to prove.”

I ushered my
attorney into the living room. “I still can’t believe Shaw has
his sights set on me. If he read that entire case against Eric, he’d
know all I did was use my expertise to show that the incriminating
photograph had been doctored.”

“
He’s young, and
he’s playing the odds. He knows that the person who discovers a
victim is often the person who perpetrated the crime. I expect you’ll
hear much more from him.”

Right on cue, the
doorbell rang. “I have a warrant to search your premises,” Shaw
said, when I opened the door.

“
Be my guest,” I
said, accepting the warrant and sweeping my arm into the house to
motion him inside. What could he find? I had no stash of tomahawks.
No bloody clothes. No weapons. He was wasting his time.

Nevertheless, it was
hard to keep from worrying, as Shaw and his crony pawed through my
cabinets and pulled items off the shelves. As soon as they were gone,
I’d launder every item of clothing they touched and thoroughly
clean the whole place. My only consolation was knowing they’d find
nothing incriminating.

Two hours later,
Shaw asked for access to my computer. The request had the effect of
slapping me upside my smug, complacent head. Eric Hartfield had not
only tweaked me in person every chance he got, but he’d sent me
irritating e-mails whenever the spirit moved him—or whenever my
Indian photos were in the newspaper or on TV. I led Shaw to my
upstairs office and opened my computer. I had deleted the majority of
Eric’s e-mails, but there were enough left that when Shaw found
them, he thought he’d hit the Big Bear casino jackpot. I read the
first two from the monitor:

Date:
Mon, 14 Jun 18:14:54 -0500

To:
Cassandra Cassidy <
[email protected]
>

From:
Eric Hartfield <
[email protected]
>

Subject:
Sunday’s Star Tribune review

CCAS:
Read Sunday’s review of your latest. Some reviewers are too easy to
impress. <> What a
bunch of tripe.

Date:
Sat, 28 Aug 21:11:23 -0500

To:
Cassandra Cassidy <
[email protected]
>

From:
Eric Hartfield <
[email protected]
>

Subject:
Another fool’s been sucked in

CCAS:
I have walls that are more intelligent than the guy who wrote that
<show.>> Have they all fallen for the <>
crap.