A Rendezvous to Die For (9 page)

Well . . . calf, I thought to
myself.

It didn’t take long to realize
that Jack’s characterization of the event as a “cutting clinic”
was a gross exaggeration. The horses hadn’t been trained for
anything more than pleasure riding and the riders hadn’t the
slightest idea as to what was expected of them. I moved into place,
scoping out some interesting angles.

The riders had entered the arena
and were maneuvering their horses close to the calves, which bunched
together at one end of the arena. I continued snapping pictures,
wishing for a little more action. Suddenly, I bumped into someone
leaning on the wooden fence watching the activities. “I’m so
sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t paying attention to anything other
than what I see in my camera.”

“
That is quite all right.”

As soon as the man straightened
up and faced me, I remembered him as the one I’d wanted to
photograph in a Kaiser uniform. “Mr. Lansing? We met in the vintage
clothing shop on Monday.”

“
Yes, yes,” he said, taking
my hand between his two hands. “You are Cassandra Cassidy, the
photographer who lives in Marty Madigan’s carriage house.”

“
That’s right.” I eyed him
with open curiosity. “I remember your saying that you know Marty
quite well. Do you see him often?”

“
Not often, but enough to say
we’re more than acquaintances. We are both involved in
reenactments. We will take it up again, when things settle down for
him.”

“
When and how do you think that
will take place?”

“
I have no way of knowing that,
but as soon as the authorities discover who killed the reporter,
Marty will no longer be under suspicion.”

“
You
sound certain that he’s not guilty. It was his tomahawk in Eric’s
head.”

“
My dear, Marty
cannot be guilty.” He shook his head with vigor. “He is not the
kind of person who could perpetrate such a crime.”

“
How do you know that?”

“
Over the years, Marty has very
generously shared information about the Rendezvous with me.” He
gazed across the arena toward the horizon. “He knows a great deal
about the manner of dress, the language, activities, skills and even
the weapons used in that time period. I have always found him to be
nothing but a gentleman.”

“
Did he ever say anything to
you about Eric Hartfield?”

“
Oh, no, our acquaintanceship
is based primarily on subjects related to the Rendezvous. I have not
talked with him since the event. I will, of course. I am simply
giving him time to deal with the tragedy of the situation. I want him
to know he has my support.”

My mind shifted into high gear.
“Mr. Lansing—Willis—would you consider allowing me to accompany
you on your visit to Marty, when you’re ready? I’d like to go to
Marty’s house, but . . . you know, I’d like someone with me.”

Lansing threw back his head and
laughed aloud. “Oh, Cassandra, Marty is not a dangerous person. But
if it will make you feel better, I will do that for you.”

“
Thank you,” I said,
breathing a sigh of relief. We exchanged cell phone numbers.

“
And how about you?” Lansing
stroked his jaw and peered more closely at me through narrowed eyes.
“This has been a frightful ordeal for you as well, has it not?”

I nodded. “Yes, well—”

“
You, too, will soon be
exonerated. You must practice patience. Were you able to take some
good photographs of the event, before the unfortunate incident ruined
it for you?”

I nodded again. “Fortunately,
yes. They were confiscated by the sheriff, but my attorney was able
to negotiate their return just this afternoon. I’ve only had a few
minutes to go over them, but I’m pleased with many.”

Our attention was drawn to the
pounding of hoof beats from the other end of the arena and the
shouting of the young people in one loud cacophony. I broke into a
run along the fence to see what was happening. Without warning, a
calf bolted by me and headed straight for the open pasture beyond the
arena. Behind it, following every move the calf made, cowboy Jack
Gardner rode to the rescue.

Jack twirled a rope above his
head, while I snapped away. Finally, I’d have some action shots. As
the horse closed in on the running calf, Jack’s lasso sailed into
the air and slid over the calf’s neck. Jack’s horse came to an
instantaneous stop. The action tautened the rope and the calf toppled
into the grass and then scrambled to its feet and stood waiting. Jack
towed the subdued animal safely back to the arena. I gave him a
thumbs-up as he passed by and had to grin at the expressions on his
students’ faces as they cheered. They were probably dreaming of the
day they could repeat the action and with the same degree of skill.

I turned to resume my
conversation with Lansing, but he had left the scene. I filed away
his comments about Marty and congratulated myself for enlisting yet
another ally in my quest to learn more about my landlord.

When
the young cowboys and cowgirls had loaded up their horses and the
last trailer had lumbered down the road, I set out to find Jack. He
was in the tack room, putting away the last of the ropes, saddles,
and bridles. “I got some good shots, but the best were of you,” I
said. “Your students are rather green in calf cutting.”

He grinned. “Yeah, well, you
work with what you’ve got. We’re a long way from Texas up here.
Nary a real ranch in sight. They’re all caught up in the idea of
playing cowboy though. They want to call it a cutting clinic. I let
them get away with it.”

“
Nice roping anyway.”

“
You liked that, did you?” He
looped his arm around my shoulders. “So you got some good pictures
of me. To decorate your walls, I suppose.”

“
I doubt it,” I said. “Maybe
I’ll do a feature on you for
Texas
Monthly
. A Minnesota
cowboy. They’ll eat it up.” I squirmed out from under his arm. “I
really came to tell you about my meeting with Randy today.”

“
What do you
suppose that was all about?” he asked, when I told him about Marty
pulling back the tarp from the victims’ faces.

“
Not sure. Unless
it has something to do with his lost wife and child.”

“
Where do you go
from here?”

I sighed wearily.
“Not sure. I’ve never done this before.”

“
Why not talk to
Randy again? Maybe he can give you some new leads, now that he trusts
you. I know he’s home today.”

“
Getting
him to talk at all is like pulling teeth from a bunny rabbit, he’s
so dang shy, Jack. What else could he tell me?”

“
Anything is
better than nothing. Don’t give up now.” Jack scribbled Randy’s
home address on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. “I’ll call
and tell him you’ll be stopping by later.”

* * *

All I knew about
being involved in a murder was what I’d seen on television and in
the movies. Watching a suspect squirm on film has little in common
with being the squirmee. If I dwelled on my troubles, though, I’d
go mad. Keeping appointments kept me sane and gave me the illusion
that, at least temporarily, my life would go on.

I
had no idea what else I would ask Randy and I couldn’t imagine what
else he’d have to tell me, but visiting him would shorten the
evening hours I had to spend alone. The sun was finally setting as I
approached his house on the other side of town. He lived in the same
farmhouse in which he had grown up. I reviewed what Jack had told me
about him. One of six children, he had remained in the farmhouse as
his siblings left one by one and after his parents died. The farmland
had long ago been sold off. The house stood by itself on a smaller
parcel of land surrounded by the now towering pines and maple trees
his parents had planted fifty years ago. The encroaching housing
developments suggested that Randy would have to make a choice about
staying put or selling out in the near future.

I parked in the
driveway a few feet from the front porch. A light reflected through
the drawn shades in what I assumed was the living room. As I trotted
up the three steps of the porch and eyed the peeling paint of the
front door, I was relieved to hear the rather loud sounds of the TV
projecting out through the slightly raised window. I knocked three
times and waited for Randy to come to the door. I knocked again,
louder this time and with the flat of my hand, reasoning that with
the elevated television sounds, he probably couldn’t hear me. It
seemed rather odd that he wasn’t watching for me though. I was sure
Jack would have called to tell him I was on my way.

When he still hadn’t
answered a few seconds later, I turned the doorknob and pushed the
door open a few inches. “Randy? It’s Cassandra Cassidy. Sorry I’m
so late!” I entered the house and stepped hesitantly into the
living room. “Randy?” Inadvertently, I shivered. Something wasn’t
right. I could sense it. Feeling stupid, I shook off my unease. I was
acting like a ninny, instead of a self-confident woman determined to
be her own investigator. I was simply visiting a new friend in a
typical Minnesota farmhouse.

“
Randy? I’m
here.” I walked more determinedly into the room and peered about
me. Several lamps were lit, casting bright light on the furnishings,
which were well worn. It was to be expected. Six kids had a way of
wearing out anything upholstered and few men would go shopping for
replacements, if they were comfortable with things the way they had
always been. “
Randy,”
I called out again, literally bellowing this time. I felt like an
intruder. I headed around the couch toward a doorway to what I
assumed was the kitchen. As soon as I passed it, I came to an abrupt
halt. “Randy?” My hand flew to my face and my shaking fingers
covered the scream erupting from my mouth. With my heart in my
throat, I clutched my chest and then reached out to brace myself on
an end table. This was no time to pass out.

Randy lay sprawled
across the coffee table in front of the sofa, face down. A knife
protruded from his back. His shirt was stained with matted blobs of
blood.

I don’t know how
long I stood frozen in place. Trembling uncontrollably, my instinct
for self-preservation finally kicked in. In mere seconds, I ran
through the options facing me. I could simply leave and let someone
else discover Randy. I could touch him, to see if he were still
alive. I could . . . .

There was only one
choice I could live with, no matter what the future dictated. I
fumbled in my shoulder bag, spilling half its contents on the floor,
pulled out my cell phone, and with a shaky finger punched in 911.

Chapter
9

Friday

By 7:00 a.m., the
next day, my doorbell was ringing. Persistently. Still clad in
pajamas and far too glum to protest, I shuffled through the kitchen
and the living room to open the door. It was Anna.

“
I heard what
happened, Cassandra,” she said, proffering one of Grizzly’s
magical elixirs. “I doubted you’d be sleeping, so I came as soon
as I could.” She wrapped her arms around me in a warm hug. “You’re
shaking, girl. I’m so sorry.”

“
You’re right
about my not sleeping,” I said, yawning. “I don’t think I’ll
ever sleep again without being haunted by Eric and Randy. The cops.
The questions.”

Anna guided me back
to the kitchen, where I sank onto the first chair. Shoving my coffee
container onto the table, I propped my elbows next to it and dropped
my chin into my hands. I felt listless, sick at heart, and completely
doomed. Not even the smell of the steaming coffee or the knowledge
that I would undoubtedly enjoy it got me out of my funk.

“
Do you want to
talk about it?” Anna asked, her voice infused with concern. “Or
has the whole ordeal worn you out?”

“
No. I’ll talk
about it,” I said, blowing my nose on a tissue. “I
need
to talk about it . . . with someone who doesn’t think I’m a
double murderer.” My eyes flew to meet hers “You
don’t
,
do you?”

She scowled and
pinched her lips. “Of course not! You were in an unfortunate place
at the wrong time.” She paused for a sip of her coffee. “What
were you doing at Randy’s, by the way?”

I told her about my
initial interview with Randy, and of how I thought he might remember
more valuable facts about Marty’s connection to Eric. I blinked
away a few tears. “You told me Marty’s wife and child left him
while he was serving in Viet Nam, and that he hasn’t seen them
since. When Randy told me about Marty’s reaction at the accident
and that Marty tends to blow up easily, I thought there might be a
connection to Eric’s killing. You know . . . that he has unsettled
issues and he copes by inappropriately blowing his stack. I wanted to
talk with him about it.”