Hot Dogs (18 page)

Lizzie as usual was easy to find.
We only had to follow the
excited yipping of her dogs.
She was standing at the far end of the area
talking to a man—the same one I’d seen her with the day before, I realized.
Before we could draw close enough for me to get a really good look at him he
strode away.

I did get a good look at Lizzie though and had to admit she
looked great.
She wore a cheerleader outfit—probably hers in high school and
the damn thing still fitted beautifully—in blue and white and decorated with
red stars.
She carried two hoops in one hand.
Several of the poodles—some of
them now dyed red and blue while others were left white—recognized Sarkisian
and me and ran to greet us.

“Where are Mazda and Roomba?” I asked as we joined her.

“Mazda wouldn’t be able to make the march, the poor darling
and Roomba would be too busy living up to her name and scouring the ground for
anything edible.
Or not edible,” she added after a moment’s consideration.
“Doing your rounds?”

“Actually I had a question for you, Ms.
Mobley.” Sarkisian
stooped to remove a bright red poodle from his shoe.

“Shoot,” she invited though a wary expression had crept into
her eyes.

“Your fingerprints are on the inside of the briefcase Lee
Wessex had with him.”

She stared at first him, then me, then Sarkisian again.
“You
found it?” Her shoulders slumped.
“Empty, I suppose.”

“Not in the least.”

She opened her mouth.
“You mean—no, you couldn’t mean that.”
She sighed.
“For one wonderful moment I thought you were going to tell me all
the money was there and we could distribute it to the charities.”

“I was and you can,” Sarkisian said then had to break off as
Lizzie squealed and threw her arms around him.
The dogs took that as their cue
to leap at all of us and yip their little heads off.

At last Lizzie settled down.
There were actually tears in
her eyes and she wiped them carefully on a tissue so as not to wreak havoc on
her red, white and blue eye makeup.
She seemed genuinely thrilled.
Of course if
she’d been the one to kill Wessex and hide the money she must have been waiting
with bated breath for the sheriff to announce it had been found.
There was
always the fear she might have hidden it too well—or that someone else might
have found and kept it in the intervening year.

But why would she have hidden it at all?
The question barely
formed in my mind when the obvious answer hit me.
If she’d taken it she could
never have allowed it to be seen.
It would have linked her with Wessex’s
disappearance—and his murder when his body was found this year.
Hiding it and
waiting for it to be found would have been her only option.

“Any idea how your prints got on the inside?” he asked.

She blinked.
“I handled it,” she said slowly as if searching
her memory.

“It was his briefcase,” he pointed out.
“What were you doing
with it?”

“I put some money into it that I’d collected at the parade
last year.
We were collecting all the funds from the event in one spot.
In fact
I was just bringing him another check to add to it when he ran over poor
Mazda.” Her face clouded.
“He deserved what he got,” she added savagely.

“Which isn’t the sort of thing his murderer would say, is
it?” I asked as we strode back to the starting line where the Grand Marshal’s
car still awaited the arrival of the Grand Marshal.

“Too many people know how furious she was with him.
To
pretend otherwise would look suspicious,” he told me with his usual logic.

And to that, of course, I had no answer.

Chapter Fifteen

The parade got underway only ten minutes late.
The crowd
didn’t seem to have minded the wait.
Everyone was talking, laughing and eating
the popcorn, pretzels and ice cream being hawked by a great many vendors.
Even
Janowski seemed to have survived without having a complete nervous breakdown.

Brian Quantrell, in his paramedic uniform, sat on the back
of an open convertible with a plastic grin on his face, waving to the crowd.
His embarrassment was obvious but to give him credit he had shown up.

Next came the Sauntering Seniors, Merit County’s very own
marching band for which the only entrance requirement was being over fifty-five
years old.
There didn’t seem to be any requirement for knowing how to play an
instrument but that was only the opinion of music lovers.
They were followed by
a float decorated with more crepe paper and balloons than seemed possible, the
Dentists with Drills and a team of Clydesdales pulling a wagon.
The driver, Mr.
Barnaby from Barnaby’s Berry Bramble, waved at Sarkisian and me.
Events
Unlimited had hired him and his team for a hayride for Upper River Gulch’s
Harvest Festival last year and amazingly he bore me no ill will.

We’d only strolled a little farther when I spotted Connie
Wessex standing along the street in front of most of the crowd.
I drew
Sarkisian’s attention to her and we diverted our course in her direction.
She
looked up as we approached and her face took on a wary expression.
It was a
familiar look.
People tended to wear it when they saw Sarkisian—once they’d
finally realized he invariably learned more from them than they’d intended.

“Good morning, Ms.
Wessex.” Sarkisian’s smile made up for
her lack of friendliness.
“I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you.”

“This isn’t exactly a quiet place,” she pointed out.

“We could go somewhere else,” he suggested.
“Such as my
office?”

She smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“I really don’t
want to leave here.
I have an excellent place to watch the parade.”

“Then I’ll just have to question you here I suppose.” His
amusement at least was genuine.

She glared at him but accompanied us to the back of the
crowd then down a side street that was devoid of people.
When we were safely
out of earshot of any curious listeners she turned to face him.
“What do you
want?”

“Did you know your fingerprints are on the inside of the
case your husband was carrying when he was killed?”

“Yes, Ivan told me you’d found it.” Her lip curled.

That surprised me.
I hadn’t realized Janowski had found out.
But Sarkisian made no comment so presumably he’d been the one who told him—and
probably questioned him about it as well.

“And of course my prints were in there,” Connie went on.
“I’d packed some of the money in it before the fireworks were due to start and
I left.
Are my prints on the cash and checks too?
Or can’t you get prints off
money?”

Sarkisian smiled but didn’t answer her question.
“There’s
one other thing I’d like you to clear up for me.”

“Yes?” She eyed him with well-founded suspicion.

“It concerns five thousand dollars taken from your bank
account that apparently showed up in Brian Quantrell’s.”

“So?” She looked surprised.
“There’s nothing illegal about
giving someone money is there?”

“Depends on why,” Sarkisian said mildly.

She stared at him.
“What on earth are you suggesting?”

“Nothing.
I’m just asking.”

“Do you think it’s a payoff or something?
That I hired him
to murder my husband?
For a paltry five thousand dollars?”

“It does seem cheap,” he agreed.
“But considering he wanted
to marry you himself he’d probably have done it for nothing.” Somehow he made
it sound as if that exonerated both of them.

She nodded.
“He probably would have.
But since I’d made it
very clear I wasn’t the least bit interested in marrying him there was no need.
The money was…a parting gift.
We’d been having a brief fling but I got bored
with it.”

“Do you give all your lovers such a generous send-off?”
Sarkisian knew as well as I did that was the only large cash withdrawal she’d
made from her account.

“Usually it’s something from a store.” Her irritation
lingered but she managed an almost convincing smile.
“An electronic toy, a gold
chain, an expensive watch.”

“Like the one you gave Janowski?” he asked.

She shot him a surprised look.
“Did he tell you?”

He shook his head.
“I’m just observant.”

“Is Janowski’s watch really worth five thousand dollars?” I
asked as we walked away.
That might explain why he looked at it so often.

“Just a hair under but yes,” Sarkisian confirmed.

The parade passed by us to the cheers and applause of the
crowd.
It was heavy on drill teams and light on floats and bands but it was our
drill teams that were making our county famous.
I spotted a camera crew from a
San Francisco TV news station.
Sarkisian saw them too and ducked around the
corner again, leaving me on my own.

I waited while a karate class paused their march to perform
a group kata, then they continued on their way with punches and kicks
highlighted by shouts of focused energy.
They were having fun and the crowd
seemed to enjoy them.
I realized I was making mental notes for potential future
events and turned away, striding back along the parade route toward the
beginning.

I hadn’t gotten very far before my phone rang with “C is for
Cookie” and I groaned.
I should have known I wouldn’t be able to stay and watch
the performances of all the drill teams.
And there was an equestrian unit that
was planning some kind of square dance with their horses as they went down the
street which I’d really wanted to see.

I tapped my earpiece.
“Annike McKinley,” I said as brightly
as I could.

“The gates are locked and we can’t find anyone to let us
in,” came a disgruntled voice.

Oh damn.
I had to get this guy gruntled again as soon as
possible.
“I’m at the parade but I can get there in about ten minutes.
I’ll
hurry,” I promised, knowing ten minutes probably wouldn’t be enough time to
even get Freya free of the parking jam around here.
And since I didn’t have a
key to the gates it wouldn’t do any good.

“We’re waiting,” came the reply, a shade less annoyed.

I’d barely disconnected and started running for my car when
“C is for Cookie” sounded again.
Maybe it had been a mistake assigning that
song to the Foodies.
At this rate I might come to hate it by the end of the day
and I had a real soft spot for the Muppets.
I answered with my name, once more
forcing a smile into my voice.

“Why isn’t the gate unlocked?” came the irate demand.
“We
were counting on getting the ice cream freezer plugged into an outlet before
now.”

Ouch.
One of the entrants for the ice cream contest.
“I’m
tracking down the key,” I assured the woman, stretching the truth a little.
I
was still tracking down Freya.
I disconnected.

“Hey Annike, pick up the damn phone, will you?” came Charlie
Fallon’s voice.
He’d recorded his own message for me in lieu of a ring.
“Hurry
up, don’t keep me waiting or I’ll start to sing.” And he made good his threat.

Laughing—he’s actually a very good singer though he was
being intentionally bad for my benefit—I tapped my earpiece.
“I know, I know,
the gate’s locked.”

“There’s a whole lineup here waiting to get in, kiddo,” he
said in person this time, not by way of a recording.

“And you need to get your chili on the stove.” He’d entered
the contest—in the pro division of course—and he needed to get the last minute
ingredients chopped and added during the final simmer.
“I’m on my way, honest.”

His infectious chuckle sounded in my ear.
“Inconvenient of
the head groundsman to get himself murdered, wasn’t it?”

“You’d think the Fairgrounds Committee would have appointed
someone to take his place for this event at least, wouldn’t you?” I elbowed my
way through the crowd and spotted Freya.

Now if I could just get the poor old girl out of that tight
parking space I could be on my way.
With everyone either here or converging on
the fairgrounds the intervening couple of miles ought to be free and clear.
I
climbed in, turned on the engine—which only rattled and complained a little—and
backed up the eight possible inches before cranking the wheel as hard as I
could to begin easing out.

Once liberated from the tight quarters and moving at a fair
clip, Freya began to purr.
I punched the button for the head of the Fairgrounds
Committee—his personal phone, not a business one—and to my surprise he answered
after only four rings.

“Dave Henderson,” he said.

“It’s Annike McKinley.”

“What is it this time?” He didn’t sound pleased to hear from
me but I’ve gotten used to that.

I told him the problem.

“Damn it.
I gave the keys to Edward Vanderveer for the day.
Don’t you people keep in touch?”

Edward Vanderveer?
This was the first I’d heard of it.
“Everything’s been in such chaos I think the lines of communication have broken
down a bit.
Sorry to have bothered you.”

Edward Vanderveer?
I’d swear no one on the Fourth of July
Committee had authorized him to take charge of keys though I could see why the
Fairgrounds Committee would have agreed to it.
He was a member of both after
all.
I still cringed though at the thought of what Ivan Janowski would have to
say about what he’d call officiousness rather than expediency.
And speaking of
expediency… I pressed the button I’d temporarily assigned to Edward Vanderveer
as part of the Fourth of July Committee.

“What is it?” He answered almost at once, sounding harassed.

“It’s Annike,” I began.

“I’m just parking beside the gate.” His usual precise tones
began to reemerge.
“Why are they all here so early?
They aren’t supposed to
start arriving for another twenty minutes.”

“We told them they could be here over half an hour ago.”

A short silence ensued.
“There, it’s open.
I must have
gotten the time wrong.”

Had he?
Or had he been doing something at the fairgrounds
after the night watchmen would have gone home when he could be sure no one was
around to catch him?
And of course he’d have the keys for the auditorium as
well as the Exhibitors’ Gate.
Damn, I always hate suspecting people of having
ulterior motives.
So often they do—and for reasons that are strictly personal and
not in the least illegal though occasionally reprehensible.

Since I was already driving I might as well continue to the
fairgrounds.
Based on experience I was willing to bet the Foodies would have
all sorts of questions—already answered of course but that wouldn’t stop them
from asking them again.
And again.
A great deal of my job seemed to be
hand-holding for the nervous and stressed.

By the time I reached the gate everything seemed to be
running smoothly.
I pulled Freya around to Parking Lot B.
It was almost empty
except for the backup vehicles brought by the Foodies.
I recognized
Vanderveer’s sleek Mercedes among the motley assortment.
I left Freya in a
convenient spot and struck out for the picnic area armed with my laptop and
notebook.
It pays to be prepared.

Through the general chaos of getting set up I began to smell
the incredible aromas of a wide variety of chilis and berry concoctions.
So
far, so good.
And it did smell good.
I waved to various people I recognized.
I
knew many of the Foodies by sight, having dealt with them through other events
in the past.
I even knew some of the non-professionals, at least the ones from
Upper River Gulch.

I was well into the food area before I spotted Vanderveer
walking around, exchanging greetings, hopefully answering questions.
When he
saw me he frowned but strode over.