A Rendezvous to Die For (13 page)

Of course, the other possibility
was that Frank had been set up in an ingenious plot that, properly
executed, could remove two thorns in the flesh—Eric
and
Frank. Actually, three men, if Marty were being set up as well. But
Randy wasn’t in their league. Why Randy? My mind was reeling, by
the time I reached the edge of town.

I decided it wouldn’t hurt to
get more information on Guy Strothers. Hoping to find articles about
the commission’s meetings, I headed over to the library to see if
it kept past issues of the newspaper. Janine, the librarian, was
familiar with the controversy. “My husband’s on that commission,
too,” she said. Janine was married to Russell Cloud, an Ojibwe
businessman. She tucked a bookmark into a mystery she was reading and
leaned across her desk and lowered her voice. “I went to some of
those meetings, Cassandra. Listening to the way the land-development
people proceeded, you would think they were offering the county a
gold mine. The project was sprung on the commission last fall and
worked its way through the system, until it was approved in March.”
She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “The Bridgewater Company
knew exactly how to play to the commissioners,” she said.
“Strothers knew they were hungry for development money.”

Even though I’d never seen
Strothers, I knew the type. Personable, energetic, even charismatic.
I could see him mesmerizing the commission members with glowing
descriptions of his project.

Janine was on a roll. She
probably thought she was a key character in a local murder mystery
and needed to use all her acquired knowledge of how to proceed. After
confirming Frank’s take on what had happened regarding Strothers
and his retinue of strategists and attorneys and their four-color
Power Point graphs and charts, she continued. “They showed videos
of citizens testifying to the success of his concept in other areas
of the country. Boy, was he ever slick,” she said. “Even so, Russ
thought the project didn’t have a prayer of succeeding. But he was
wrong. Because of their selling skills, or their persistence—or
who-knows-what might have changed hands behind the scenes—the
commissioners voted in favor of the project. Only my husband and
Marty voted against it.” She scratched her head and then patted her
hair into place. “Later, when Marty came up with that EIS proposal,
they couldn’t ignore it. They
had
to vote for the Impact
Statement, even though they knew it could shut down the development
for good.”

“
Do you know how Strothers and
the Bridgewater Land Company have performed in other projects?”

“
Hmm, I don’t know anything
more, Cassandra. Sorry. Personally, I haven’t been interested
enough to look into it.”

I photocopied several news
stories to read later, thanked Janine for her help, and left the
library wondering how and if all this political brouhaha could be
connected to Eric and Randy’s murders.

Reluctantly, I felt I had to add
Frank to my list of suspects. No doubt some of Frank’s tactics were
suspect, as he pushed his own political agenda. I had to admit,
though, that if he were guilty of some of the things he was accused
of in his trial—bribery, fraud, forgery, and tax evasion, even
embezzlement—none of the court challenges over the years had ever
held up. In the late nineties, he was elected chairman again. To the
average reservation member, Frank Kyopa was a hero, bringing economic
prosperity to a region that had never experienced it. In a few short
years, he had expanded the tribe’s tiny floundering casino and made
it highly profitable. He had developed other new businesses, too. And
he had attracted more outside subsidies than his predecessors had
done in all their decades of leadership. But . . . he still jealously
guarded the tribe’s “cultural traditions,” a stand Eric had
labeled as “ludicrous.” He still resisted any encroachment of
outside development, a stand that got him crosswise of Strothers and
his flunkies.

Strothers wasn’t Frank’s only
enemy, of course. The political battlefield was riddled with them,
from tribal leaders he had supplanted, to county and state
bureaucrats he had ignored. I wasn’t naïve enough to think he’d
survived all these challenges by turning the other cheek.

Back
at home, after my day of sleuthing, I stretched out on my recliner
and booted up my laptop to see what I could learn about Strothers.
First, I Googgled
Bridgewater
Land Development Company
and waited to see what would come up.
As I expected, dozens of marketing information sites about “land
development companies” filled the screen. I scrolled down until I
found Bridgewater. It was a typical promotional site, wrapped in
snazzy graphics and photos of successful developments. Not what I was
looking for.

Back to Google for another try. I
scrolled through several screens and got more of the same. I needed
another approach. I tried
land-development
company evaluations
.
Nothing. Maybe
land-development
company news stories.
Bingo.
This one had possibilities. Thinking there might be something under
Chicago Tribune
real estate stories, I opened the
site and typed “Bridgewater” into the search box. I hit
pay
dirt. Several articles had been written about the Bridgewater Land
Development Company. But the most interesting was a column written by
the one of the paper’s business columnists the previous summer.

In a nutshell, the columnist wrote that Bridgewater, although it
looked good on paper, was a very shaky company. The company’s
strategy had been to buy up property forfeited for taxes or other
nonpayment, and then develop it. The strategy had worked for several
years, but like a pyramid scheme, it was beginning to catch up with
them. Bridgewater had taken on a lot of debt in its last deal,
building a fifty-acre office park in a Chicago suburb, and the
offices were only about fifty-five percent leased.

I was willing to bet
they had a huge stake in the Minnesota deal going through to
completion.

Chapter
13

Tuesday—Week
Two

If
such a thing as a perfect morning for a funeral existed, this morning
didn’t meet the criteria. I had awakened to the sound of pelting
rain against my windows. From the looks of the charcoal-gray sky
outside, I guessed we were in for a full day of the wet stuff. I
dreaded the idea of going to Randy’s funeral, yet I had to do it.

As I drove down the driveway and
onto the county road taking me to the church, my wipers worked hard,
but were losing the battle to keep the windshield clear. I hunched
over the steering wheel, mentally willing them to work faster and
harder. Over the sound of the rain pounding on the roof overhead, I
listened to people sharing their weather stories with the morning
radio-news host. A segment of the Colton Mills population was more
dependent on the whims of Mother Nature than I was, and most were far
more grateful for the unrelenting downpour.

“
This has been the hottest June
I can remember,” a farmer said. “I was beginning to worry that my
corn wouldn’t reach knee high by the Fourth of July, but this rain
could make the difference.”

Even as a disgruntled gardener
praised the rain for displacing the dust in her rain gauge, I cursed
her godsend for creating the low visibility. My Jeep’s ten-year-old
ventilation system couldn’t keep the windows from fogging up. I
steered with one hand and used the other to swipe at the window,
trying to keep a section of the windshield clear. It was only five
miles into town, but when I passed the crumbling old gas station
landmark, I saw that I’d only traveled a mile or so. At that rate,
it would take me an hour to reach my destination. Because of the
foggy conditions, though, I was afraid to push it any faster.

Concentrating on my multiple
driving tasks, I barely felt the slight bump against the rear side of
my vehicle. “Damn, someone’s trying to pass me.” I fought with
the steering wheel to keep my car on the road.

The second bump got my attention.
Something loomed out of the mist on my left and jolted my vehicle
again, forcing me to move further to the right. Out of the corner of
my eye, I could see the shadow of a larger vehicle keeping pace with
mine. It wasn’t trying to pass me. It was edging closer. He was
probably having the same trouble seeing through the fog that I was.
No!
He’s doing it on purpose!
With that thought
barreling into my head, I heard the sickening sound of metal against
metal.
I’m being squeezed off the road
. My Jeep tilted
dangerously, as its right-side wheels left the pavement and slid onto
the shoulder. I fought with the steering wheel and felt my heart leap
into my throat. If I hadn’t been driving slowly, I would be
plummeting down the embankment and into the river.

Because of the weather
conditions, there was no way for me to identify the driver of the
mystery vehicle. I couldn’t take my gaze off the road. As the
vehicle veered toward mine for what I feared would be the final
shove, I slammed on my brakes. The other vehicle accelerated down the
road. Through the fog, I watched my tormenter’s taillights
disappear around the curve ahead. Shaking, I pulled my vehicle back
onto the pavement and drove the remaining miles into town, breathing
rapidly and breaking into an unwanted sweat.

I pulled into the parking lot of
the First Baptist Church and tried to get a hold of myself. I rested
my head on the steering wheel and steeled myself to breathe deeply.
Who’s trying to run me off the road? And why?
I cursed the
weather for the umpteenth time. If it hadn’t been so foggy, if
conditions hadn’t required I keep my eyes on the road, I could have
identified the vehicle
and
the person behind the wheel. Or at
least have memorized the license number. I wasn’t stupid. The
person had to be the same one who’d broken into the carriage house.
The individual didn’t want me to do anymore snooping around . . .
or to take any more photos.

Once more in control of my
faculties, I cast a quick glance at the parking lot. It looked as if
the whole town had turned out, regardless of the weather. I saw a
horde of umbrellas spilling out of cars as their owners made their
way into the church through the rain. I popped my own umbrella and
joined them. Luckily, I spotted a vacancy in the last pew. After I
had stashed my umbrella on the floor at my feet and settled back to
listen to the organ music, I let my eyes roam over the backs of heads
to see if I recognized anyone.

Willis Lansing slid onto the pew
next to me, grinned and patted my arm. We sat, unspeaking, through
the heartbreaking service. Then, as attendees followed the coffin
down the aisle to the strains of “Amazing Grace,” I
self-consciously bowed my head and focused on my folded hands,
fearing I would attract stares as I had at the wedding.

Willis interrupted my
self-absorption. “Are you going to the cemetery?”

“
No, I’m not. Are you?”

“
No. But if you have the time,
I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee.”

“
I’d like that,” I said.
“Grizzly’s in fifteen minutes?”

Minutes later, I was removing my
drenched raincoat and sliding into a booth. “What an incredibly sad
occasion,” Willis said, as he set two mugs of coffee on the table.
“I heard that you were the one who found Randy. What unfortunate
timing.”

“
Well, yes.” I hated to
relive that dreadful night. “Unfortunate for me. Doubly unfortunate
for poor Randy. How did you come to know him?”

Willis carefully measured a
teaspoon of sugar and stirred it into his coffee. “He did some work
for me in the past. A fine young man. I hope they solve the crime
soon.”

Imitating Willis, I slowly
stirred my coffee, although I hadn’t added anything to it. “What
kind of work did he do for you?”

“
Randy was a talented leather
craftsman. I enlisted his help on several projects over the past few
months.” He fastidiously dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
“Switching to another unfortunate subject . . . has the sheriff
made any progress on his investigation of the Rendezvous murder?”

“
Not that I know,” I said,
dipping one of Roxie’s chocolate biscottis into my coffee. “But
if they don’t find the killer soon, I think I’m going to be the
next victim.”

Willis’ gray eyebrows shot up
in alarm. “What on earth does that mean?”

I told him about my darkroom
break-in and my close call on the way to the funeral this morning. He
shook his head and scowled. “I wish there were something I could do
for you, Cassandra. If there is, please let me know.”

“
The most you can do is keep an
ear to the ground,” I said, standing and tidying up the table. “If
you hear anything that might help, I’d appreciate your letting me
know.”

“
Most assuredly,” he said,
rising to help me with my raincoat.

As I bused our coffee mugs,
another customer stomped into the cafe and loudly ordered a tall
house blend before he ever approached the counter. I wasn’t as fast
as Willis, who pushed ahead of me and plunged into the rain outside.
As I started to pass the new customer, he turned toward me. I
recognized his face from news articles I’d recently Googled.
Guy
Strothers.
Talk about the devil!