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extended his hand and presented me with a business card.
“Cassandra Cassidy, I presume?” His speech was precise and firm.
    I nodded.
    “ I am Lawton Sanders, your
attorney,” he said. “Anna sent me.”

    Chapter
5

    Tuesday
    Monday’s interview had left me
rattled. I wondered what direction Shaw’s questioning would have
taken, if Attorney Lawton Sanders hadn’t shown up. I would be
eternally grateful to Anna for sending her brother to me. Sanders had
called at the crack of dawn and was in my kitchen with his briefcase
open, ready for business. “At this point in the investigation, anyone connected with the crime scene is actually a suspect,”
he said, spelling out my predicament and attempting to relieve my
fears.
    “ But, how could Sheriff Shaw
possibly think I am the one who murdered Eric?” I shoved a mug of
coffee toward him and sipped at my own. “I’ve never even held a tomahawk, let alone
thrown one. I’d never been to a reenactment before either, and I
had no idea hatchet-throwers would be competing. He didn’t ask me
any of those questions. What about Marty? It was his tomahawk in Eric’s skull. He’s the one Shaw should be questioning, not me.”
    Sanders’ gaze was steady, his
voice calming. “I’m sure he’s questioning Marty, too, and he’ll
reach the conclusion that you couldn’t possibly be the murderer,
when all the facts are in.” He pulled out a legal pad. “Now, if
you want me to act as your attorney, start at the beginning and tell
me exactly what happened from the time you entered the Rendezvous
grounds.”
    Minutes later, he stuffed the
legal pad into his briefcase. “I’ll field any media questions,
Cassandra. Also, when the deputy contacts you again, refer him to me.
Don’t do any talking to anyone, unless I am present.”
    That
seemed like an impossible order, but I nodded anyway. As soon as
Sanders left, I paced the floor. I don’t handle uncommon stress
well. I handle stress with chemicals. The darkroom kind. The digital
revolution consigned some photographers’ darkrooms to antique
status, but I used mine often . . . whenever I wanted an effect I
couldn’t get through my computer software. I decided that
concentrating on the development of the black and white photos from
Heather’s wedding might help me think more clearly. I headed
directly to my darkroom, thankful, once again, that the carriage
house had come equipped with such a luxury.
    As I plunged developer paper into
the chemical baths, my mind raced through the possibilities. The
sheriff would investigate my past combative connection with Eric.
Worse, he would take my so-called threatening statement at the
Rendezvous seriously . . . especially since I was the one who found
Eric dead minutes later. Who else hated Eric as much as I did? Marty?
Did he even know Eric? One thing I knew for sure about my landlord .
. . as his war experiences attested, he was capable of killing. And,
he had attended the Rendezvous, as he had for many years, he was an
expert with tomahawks, and it was his so-called “lost” ‘hawk
that felled Eric in the sweat lodge.
    As soon as that
thought entered my mind, I brushed it aside. It would be stupid for
any sane killer to use an easily identifiable weapon to commit a
crime. Not only that, it would be equally stupid for someone intent
upon murder to be seen by so many people at nearly the same time the
crime was occurring. Marty wasn’t stupid.
    A million other thoughts crowded
my focus on developing quality prints for Heather. I couldn’t begin
to sort it all out all the details, but I intended to make an effort.
Passively waiting for someone else to solve my dilemma wasn’t my
style. At least it hadn’t been my style since Mrs. A had taken me
under her wing.
    * * *
    When I was about the age of four,
I was placed in foster care. I wasn’t sure how or why, because
people have always been light on the specifics. In fact, almost
secretive. I have some hazy moments of memory when