Hot Dogs (10 page)

My phone had yet to announce a call from Sarkisian.
I knew
better than to let that bother me but I missed the early morning talks we
enjoyed while I still lay in bed and he raced for early morning classes or
conferences with his professors.
He’d probably had a really late night.
I’d
wait for him to make contact rather than risk waking him from what would
probably have been a too-short sleep.
I was still feeling put out though over
not being able to spend a leisurely evening with only him—and Boondoggle—for
company.

I ate a quick breakfast of my Aunt Gerda’s homemade granola
and a drink of yogurt and berries I threw in the blender and waved at my aunt
who was outside catering to TediBird’s fastidious eating preferences—who knew
that damn turkey would still insist on pancakes?
Boondoggle, in typical hound
fashion, stood on the back deck wolfing down whatever combination of proper dog
food and table scraps my aunt had prepared for him.
Satisfied that all was well
in the furry and feathered critter department, I made my way down to the
garage, bearing my laptop and briefcase stuffed with papers, charts and plans.
My laminator and spare printer were still in the trunk.
Saved time and effort
that way.

I had just backed out of the garage and clicked the door to
close again when my phone sang out that “A Policeman’s Lot Is Not a Happy One”.
A warm sensation flooded through me and I tapped my ear piece.
“So you’re
finally awake,” I said by way of greeting.

“Am I?
Oh good.” He sounded groggy.

“How late were you up?”

A yawn sounded over the phone.
“I think I got four hours of
sleep.
Not bad really.”

“Get anywhere?”

“I kept Sarah up to do the autopsy.
Final verdict still
waiting on the lab results of course but barring anything from toxicology it
looks like a straightforward bash over the head.”

“I wonder if someone meant to kill him or just wanted to
lash out at him?”

His dry laugh sounded.
“Oh I’m sure we’ll be hearing it was
an accident.
Where are you?”

“Just heading down the hill.”

“Don’t suppose you have time to swing by my place?”

That was the most tempting offer I’d had in ages.
I glanced
at the clock I kept on the dash and my heart sank as I saw it was almost eight-thirty.
“Have to take a rain check,” I said with sincere regret.
“Tonight?”

“All night?”

I smiled—undoubtedly the fatuous self-satisfied expression
of a woman in love.
It would be nice to put some of the suggestions he’d made during
long-distance phone calls into action.
By now though I knew what the
combination of an event and an investigation could do to our romantic plans.
“I
don’t suppose you could do some more investigating around the fairgrounds
today?”

“It just so happens I’ll be going over there as soon as I
wake up.”

“Then get some coffee brewing.
I’m on my way there now.”

“I’ll stop for some on my way.
That’ll be faster.”

After a few more minutes of talking of things that were no
one’s business but our own he disconnected so he could get dressed, check in
with the department and get the investigation rolling once more.
And, just by a
happy coincidence, head over to the fairgrounds where he would probably have to
spend more time questioning the people with whom I’d be working.

I pulled into the parking lot a little while later to find
almost a dozen cars already there.
I could see the people who had come in them too,
milling around the entrance to the building.
Apparently Pete Norton, who was
supposed to unlock the doors for us, was busy elsewhere.
That meant we’d have
to find him before we could begin.

Ivan Janowski, with Theresa delGuardia scurrying in his
wake, strode toward me as soon as I climbed out of Freya.
“No keys,” he yelled.

“I can’t reach Pete on his cell phone,” Theresa assured me.
She was looking harried, as well she might if she’d had Janowski barking at her
all morning.

“Who else has a key?” I asked.

Janowski hesitated a moment then turned on the hapless
Theresa.
“Find out,” he snapped.
“And get them over here on the double.”

Theresa drew her own phone from her purse and hurried toward
the building.
Apparently she knew how to get the necessary information.
I joined
the waiting group which consisted of Edward Vanderveer, Lizzie Mobley and a lot
of her dogs, Brian Quantrell and the members of four of the acts.

“Can’t we just run through our number right here?” asked a
woman holding a clarinet case.
“I’ve got to take the kids to their swimming
lessons in less than an hour.”

“It wouldn’t do us any good,” I apologized.
“The whole point
of this is to make sure we’ve got the lighting down reasonably well and to let
you get familiar with the stage and the sound.”

“We could have a jam session to pass the time.” Quantrell
grinned and picked up his guitar case, which he’d leaned against the steps
leading to the side door.
“That way we could warm up and—” He broke off,
staring at the shredded bark beneath the escallonia hedge.

I followed the direction of his gaze and even as Quantrell
stooped to pick up the shiny object I recognized it as a heavy bunch of keys.

He held them aloft, smiling in triumph.
“A whole handful of
them,” he announced happily.
“Think one of all these will let us in?”

Janowski and Vanderveer almost collided trying to grab hold
of them.
Janowski won out, earning a glare from Vanderveer.
Janowski mounted
the few steps to the door and began a ponderous ceremonial testing of each one.
The seventh turned in the lock and he triumphantly pushed the door open and
strode inside.

“I don’t like this,” I said.
“Where’s Pete?” They looked
like his keys.
At least they were attached to a carabiner like his were.

“Probably searching for his lost keys,” Quantrell said
dryly.

Could be.
I joined the mob flocking inside to get out of the
damp fog.
Still I wished Sarkisian were here—for more reasons than one.

Quantrell and I took charge of organizing the acts while
Janowski settled himself with a notepad in one of the middle rows of seats.
Theresa
and Vanderveer headed once more to the lighting area.
I could hear Lizzie
calling her dogs who, led by the intrepid Roomba, raced around sniffing everywhere
having a great time.
As long as they didn’t create chaos on the stage or cause
the waiting performers to protest I didn’t mind in the least.
But then I’m used
to furries underfoot.

The first group—a folk-rock band who’d been playing together
since the late sixties and refused to change either their repertoire or appearance—took
their positions.
They made sure I scribbled down notes on how they wanted the
stage set.

Barking began from somewhere in the recesses of the building
but I ignored it, jotting down more notes about the feedback on the speaker
system.
The rockers, satisfied at last, took themselves off, still accompanied
by the persistent barking.

They were replaced by the anxious woman with the clarinet
who rushed off as soon as she was given the okay.
A three-person comedy act
trouped onto the stage next, their material copied from a British team with
only minor changes.
The barking increased as more of the little yappers joined
in but the actors forged ahead with determination.
Ed Vanderveer did a very
creditable job of following their movements about the stage with the swiveling
lights.
I could hear him calling tracking information to Theresa who was
writing it all down.

They were just reaching their climax when someone let forth
with a loud piercing scream from the same direction as the barking.
Maybe it
was the fact that a body had been found yesterday that made me extra jumpy but an
uncomfortable shiver raced down my spine.
I took off at a run to see what was
going on.

Quantrell, just ahead of me, stopped short.
I could see
Lizzie, her hands covering her mouth, Mazda huddled against her legs.
The other
dogs yipped and howled, ranged in a semi-circle a few feet ahead of her.

Quantrell and I pushed past her.
On the floor, protruding
from beneath a painted backdrop curtain that hung almost to the floorboards,
was a pair of legs.
In that strange state of shock I took in the lace-up work
boots covered in grass clippings and the bottom portion of dark blue-gray work pants.

“Raise the curtain,” Quantrell yelled at me.

I hadn’t the faintest idea where the ropes would be.
Instead
I tugged it up enough by hand to reveal a man lying on his side with a pool of
something dark surrounding his battered head.

We’d found Pete Norton.

Chapter Eight

Quantrell knelt beside the man, checking for a pulse.
“Get
those damn animals out of here,” he ordered Lizzie as he rose.

“Is he—” I began only to break off.
No one could look like
that and still be alive.

Quantrell nodded.
“Cold.”

“He-he didn’t fall and hit his head, did he?” Lizzie’s voice
sounded very small, very frightened.

I dragged my phone from my purse and punched in the number
of the sheriff’s office.
Jennifer, who’d been the dispatcher for over twenty
years, since even before my late husband Tom had been sheriff, answered on the
second ring.
“Jennifer—” I began.

“Hi, Annike.” She never had any trouble identifying me just
by my voice.
“He just got in a minute ago.
Isn’t he answering his own line?”

“This is an official call.” I told her what we’d just found.

She let out a low whistle.
“He’s not going to be happy about
this.
He was muttering about having counted on a couple of days of vacation
with you.”

A short, derisive laugh escaped me.
“Sarah’s going to love
this too.
Just what she needs.
Another autopsy.”

“Actually our work load’s been pretty light the last few
months.
The only murder we’ve had was that gang-related drive-by shooting back
in May.
Everyone’s been getting a bit lazy around here.
Stirring them up like
this will do them a world of good.”

I had my doubts about that but I kept them to myself.
“Well,
get them stirred.
We’ll be waiting.” I hung up but less than thirty seconds
later my phone sang out with Gilbert and Sullivan and I answered Sarkisian’s
call.

“Please tell me this is your idea of a practical joke.” He
didn’t sound like he was holding out much hope but then he knows my sense of
humor, warped as it is, doesn’t run to that sort of thing.

“Sorry.
Not even a ploy to get you over here sooner.” I told
him what I could see lying in front of me.
“Brian Quantrell’s looked at him and
he’s making Lizzie lock up her dogs and now he’s chasing other people away.”

Sarkisian swore.
Apparently hanging around a university has
taught him a few new words.
More creative than the ones usually to be heard
around the sheriff’s department.

“I take it this kills—” Oh hell, rotten choice of words.
I
forged ahead.
“Tonight’s off, isn’t it?” He was going to be in for a long
string of alibis, motives and background searching on poor Pete.
And it would
be Dr.
Sarah Jacobs who would enjoy his company over an autopsy rather than me
over a dinner.
The image thus conjured up was less than appetizing.
“Shall I
cancel the talent show?” I asked, not sure whether to hope he said yes or no.
Yes would mean a lot of upset people.
No would mean a lot of reorganizing.

“I’m not letting you off the hook yet,” he assured me.
“I’ve
got the team moving out the door.
We’ll be over there soon.”

I returned to the stage area where everyone had gathered.
Several of the acts wanted to go home but I told them they’d have to stay until
Sarkisian got there with the ghoul squad.

Theresa edged next to me.
“Would the sheriff mind if we send
out for some food?
That always keeps people quiet.”

“Pizza at ten a.m.?” I asked.

“I was thinking of croissants and cinnamon rolls and
coffee,” she said.
“There’s a bakery that would deliver.
And caffeine and sugar
always help when people are upset.”

Which, I guessed, was what made chocolate such a perfect
emergency food.
And thinking of chocolate… “Add a dozen brownies to the order
and I doubt the sheriff will object in the least.”

She cast me an odd glance but then she had no reason to know
brownies were Sarkisian’s favorite aid to thinking.
She pulled a planner from
her purse, checked the phone number section and within minutes had placed a
staggering order for sugar-heavy munchies and pots of designer coffee drinks
which, the bakery assured her in cheerful tones even I could hear standing next
to her, would be on their way within minutes.
I shouted the good news loudly
enough to be heard over the excited gossiping and irritated grumblings and most
people settled down to await the inevitable.

“What are we going to do about the show?” Janowski placed
himself in front of me, his expression frantic.

“Wait and see,” I advised.

“But we need to plan.
What are we going to tell people?”

I hesitated only a moment.
“That if we have to, we’ll hold
it in the stadium.” In many respects that would be easier than my earlier
suggestion of the high school since people wouldn’t have to drive to it.

The fairgrounds stadium was in fact an arena for rodeos and livestock
shows and consisted of wooden bleachers open to the ground below rather than concrete
stands with individual seats.
Hey, we’re a really small county but at least we
know how to husband our resources and make things do double—hell,
quadruple—duty.

Janowski’s mouth twitched into an evil smile.
”That’ll shoot
Vanderveer’s lighting efforts all to hell.” He gave a short nod of
satisfaction.
“Okay, outside it is.
I’ll have Theresa tell everyone.”

“Not so fast.” I caught him as he turned away.
“We might
still be able to hold it in here.
Wait until the forensics team has a look
around.”

He deflated.
“But it might be best—”

“It’s always best to change as little as possible once
arrangements have been made.
We’ll wait to tell people but I intend to go out
there and have a look and make some contingency plans.
Why don’t you come with
me?
And we’ll have Pete—” I broke off.
We wouldn’t be able to have Pete Norton
do anything.
It was Pete’s murder that was causing our potential displacement.

Janowski glanced at me and looked away at once.
“Damn,” he
said.
“It doesn’t feel real, does it?
I mean first Lee Wessex and now Pete
Norton.”

I shook my head.
“Lee Wessex died a year ago.”

“But we only just found out about it.
That makes it feel
like it was yesterday.”

True.
No argument there.
And I doubted it was coincidence
that Pete Norton turned up dead the morning after Lee Wessex’s body was found.
And they’d both been hit over the head.
So what had Pete known about Wessex’s
death?
Or was it something about the missing money Wessex had stolen but with
which he’d never made his clean escape?

“We’d better move everyone off the stage.
Out of the whole
auditorium, I guess,” I said without much hope.

“Right.” Theresa cupped her hands around her mouth and
shouted, “Listen up, everyone,” then turned back to me.
“Where to?”

“The stadium,” I said after a moment’s thought.
We could let
people rehearse down there.
Except the arena floor consisted of loose dirt at
the moment.
The fairgrounds possessed a portable stage, which actually
consisted of four wagons that could be drawn up on their massive wheels and
positioned next to each other then secured by some means completely unknown to
me.
I had a sinking feeling I might be finding out.

And of course Pete Norton was the one I would have had to
ask about the location of those wagons and how to get them dragged into
position.
Pete was going to be sorely missed.
He was the one who knew
everything.

And possibly just a little too much?

Theresa, with the help of Lizzie Mobley and her dogs, moved
everyone toward the arena.
Vanderveer, who obviously couldn’t do anything with
lights down there, grumbled it would all be a waste of time.

“And since I’ll be free, I’ll just take charge of those
keys,” he added, eyeing the handful that lay on the table near the side door.

Ivan Janowski glared at him.
“I should be the one to hold
them.”

Edward Vanderveer reached for them, a determined look on his
face.

“Wait,” I cried.
“No one should touch them again.
There
might be fingerprints on them.”

“Of course there are,” Vanderveer said but he lowered his
hand.
“Quantrell picked them up out of the dirt outside.”

Janowski eyed the keys as if they had sprouted thorns.
“Damn
right there’ll be prints on them and most of them will be mine.
I had to try
quite a few of them before I was able to let us in here.”

“So touching them again won’t matter in the least,”
Vanderveer declared.
He snatched them up.

I started to protest but he waved my objections aside.
“I’ll
lock the place up so no one can slip in again.”

Janowski glowered, muttered something about interfering busybodies
then glared at me.
“You’d better stay,” he decided.
“Vanderveer might need a
witness that he didn’t go back inside himself.” And with that he stalked off
after the last of the talent acts.

Vanderveer shot a dirty look after him.
“Imbecile,” he
muttered then turned to eye the building.
“We’d better check all the doors and
windows, make sure everything is secure.”

“Isn’t that the first thing you did when you couldn’t find
Pete and the keys?” I asked.

He turned a pained expression on me.
“I have no idea what Janowski
might have done.”

“We should leave the checking to the sheriff’s department,”
I told him firmly.
“They’ll be along in a few minutes.”

The bakery delivery arrived first.
After claiming half a
dozen brownies, a selection of mixed pastries and a carafe of coffee for
Sarkisian’s crew, I sent the rest down to the arena.
Vanderveer and I settled
with them on the front steps to wait.
The aroma from the delectables was almost
too much to bear and I was just reaching for a brownie when I heard the distant
sounds of the ghoul squad’s approach.
My never-ending diet was saved by the
sirens.

Oh hell, no it wasn’t.
I grabbed a brownie and bit into it
as the wails increased in volume and Sarkisian’s Jeep, leading the charge, swung
into the parking lot.
As the other vehicles pulled up as close to the
auditorium as they could I ran to the Jeep to greet the sheriff as he climbed
out.

He wrapped an arm around me, kissing me soundly and his eyes
lit with a familiar gleam.
“Brownies.”

I almost laughed.
“Over here.”

Roomba came shooting up from the arena and dived into the
midst of the disembarking forensics team, her long pointed nose searching out
any possible crumbs, fallen leaves, even tiny twigs.
Three of the poodles and
the hobbling Mazda surrounded us, leaping and yipping in their delight to see
Sarkisian, almost tripping him as we armed him with brownies then strode toward
the side entrance to the auditorium.

Vanderveer hurried to unlock the door then presented the keys
to the sheriff with a ceremonial bow.
“Only Quantrell, Janowski and I have
touched them since we found them.
There.” He pointed dramatically to the spot
beneath the shrub where Quantrell had spotted them such a short time ago.

Sarkisian waved over Salvador Rodriguez who was already pulling
on a pair of gloves.
He took the keys and dropped them into an evidence bag.
Roberta Dominguez followed him into the building with Dr.
Sarah and Sarkisian
trailing after them.

Vanderveer started up the steps but I stopped him.
“Let them
do their jobs,” I said.

“Can’t we watch?” he demanded.

“Is that why you volunteered to stay here?” Admittedly it
was fascinating to watch the ghoul squad in action but it also felt like an odd
sort of invasion of the dead man’s privacy.
On the few occasions I’ve been
present I’ve had to stifle the urge to apologize to the body for intruding.

Vanderveer shrugged.
“Beats just sitting here.”

“Why don’t you go down to the arena?” I suggested.

He cast a sideways glance toward the entrance to the
auditorium.
“You’re staying, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely not.” I took him by the arm.
“Come on.
We’re not
doing any good here and we’ve got a show to organize.
Besides, you want a
pastry before they’re all gone, don’t you?”