Hot Dogs (19 page)

“I thought you’d be at the parade,” he said by way of
greeting.

I shook my head.
“My job is to make sure everything runs
smoothly.”

He puffed out his chest.
“I’ve got everything under control
here.”

“So it seems,” I admitted.
Now if only the fireworks truck
would arrive and the Boy Scouts would get their game venues set up I might be
able to relax.

An anxious frown creased his brow.
“The fireworks will make
it, won’t they?
What will we do if they don’t?”

“Call in Pyromaniacs Anonymous,” I said, only half joking.
I
was sure they could put on a fun show in a pinch though not the professional
display people had paid big prices to attend.
I shuddered at the thought of
coping with refunds.

Leaving Vanderveer in charge I headed back to the parade to
make sure all ran smoothly there as well.

I took the opportunity of the relatively peaceful drive to
catch up on my to-do list—mental, unfortunately, because I was behind the
wheel.

Parade.
The Grand Marshal had arrived, enough of the
marchers were on site and in the appropriate staging areas and it was well
underway.
Check—at last temporarily.

Food Contests.
A large number of the competitors were on
site and setting up so even if all of them didn’t make it we’d have enough to
allow the judging to take place and keep the crowd happy and well fed—providing
of course we had a crowd.

What if I gave an event and nobody came?

I clamped down on that thought.
Positive.
I had to stay
positive.
So check for the food contests too.

Kiddie Games.
I hadn’t heard from the Scout Master yet and
the troop members who weren’t marching should have been at the fairgrounds by
now setting up their booths and wading pools filled with sand for the
sandcastles and stocking the pond with the sailboats.
Speaking clearly, I told
my phone to call the Scout Master.
It only took three tries for it to work then
I waited while it rang and rang.

Just as I began to prepare a short message to leave on the
voice mail a harassed man answered.
“Yes?”

I gave my name.

“Don’t worry,” he interrupted me.
“We’re just parking.
We
had a bit of trouble getting the younger boys to settle down and help load
everything but we’ll be set up in plenty of time.”

“They don’t pay you enough,” I told him fervently.
I’d dealt
with kids of all ages in the course of my job and I knew what their handlers
had to cope with.

He laughed.
“That’s the rotten part of volunteer jobs,” he
agreed.
“But think of the trouble the little monsters might be causing if we
didn’t try to organize them.”

“Organized trouble is always best,” I agreed.

He laughed again and we both disconnected with me at least
feeling a bit better.
Boy Scouts, check.

That brought me up to the talent show, which had occupied so
much of our time I felt there was nothing I could do but hope at this stage.
So
talent show, check.

Then came the barbecue so the crowd leaving the talent show
would be able to eat dinner without having to leave the fairgrounds.
A number
of the Foodies would be staying, switching out their chili for slabs of meat
and ribs simmering in a succulent sauce.
It was a chance for them to earn more
money and for me not to have to worry.
Too much at least.
They were already on
site and none of them had called to tell me they’d forgotten to pack what they needed
for the barbecue, so check for that one too.

And lastly the fireworks show—which had yet to arrive.

I’d just parked near the parade once more and reached for my
phone to call the fireworks company for an updated ETA when the damn thing rang
with the tone assigned to Theresa delGuardia.
Possibilities of what could have
gone wrong flooded my mind as I climbed out and tapped the earpiece.

“Where are you?” she demanded as soon as I’d said my name.

The desperation in her tone alerted me to trouble and I pulled
my emergency whistle out of the glove compartment.
As I locked Freya I said, “I
just got back from the fairgrounds.
There was—”

She interrupted me.
“We need you here.
They’re fighting.”

“Who is?” I’d left Vanderveer riding herd on the Foodies and
she had Janowski here at the parade so it couldn’t be them.
I quickened my pace
until I was almost running and hung the whistle around my neck.
With the crowd
now lining Main Street to watch the show only stray late arrivals slowed my
progress.

“The hygienists and the optometrists.”

Staging Area Four, I remembered.
I made a slight switch in
direction.

“Two of the inflatable toothbrushes collapsed,” Theresa went
on, “and the hygienists accused the optometrists of sabotaging them because
their inflatable glasses don’t look nearly as good and—” She broke off with a
cry.

I could see why for myself even from about thirty yards
away.
Several of the hygienists were hitting their opponents over the head with
their inflatable toothbrushes and a couple of others were head-butting—or
possibly cap-butting since they were using the tops of their toothpaste tube
costumes—white-coated men and women with huge inflatable glasses.

The optometrists were by no means taking this lying down.
Several swung their glasses in arcs and toothpaste tubes were falling like
chopped down trees.
Several members of one of the high school marching bands
struck up the theme from
Rocky
and Lizzie’s red, white and blue dogs
seemed to be everywhere, yapping and nipping and tripping people.

I groaned.
My first instinct was to do an about face and
hide in Freya.
Or possibly the next county.
But my business depended on client
satisfaction and even though I wasn’t technically responsible for the parade,
my clients always seemed to extend my culpability to anything that went wrong.

I raised my whistle, blew hard and waded in, blocking
erratic swings and stumbling toothpaste tubes as best I could.
I let loose with
another shrill blast and had the satisfaction of seeing the combatants pause to
look at me.

I put my hands on my hips and fixed the ones in front of me
with a scathing look.
“Are you quite done?” I demanded in my best school
mistress tones.

“They started it,” said an optometrist, thereby carrying out
the playground theme.

“You.” I pointed at a hygienist who still had her toothbrush
raised offensively.
“Take your group and go over there.” I pointed to one side
of the staging area then scooped up a bright red poodle that was leaping up at
my knees and tucked it under my arm.
“And you.” I pointed at the optometrist
who now had the grace to look a trifle sheepish.
“Take your group over there.”
I pointed to the opposite side.
“Now.
And stay there.
All of you.”

This was met with a few low-voiced cheers from the
bystanders and a chorus of yapping from the dogs.

“Thank you.” Theresa delGuardia appeared at my elbow.

I nodded.
“I’ve had training as a lion tamer.” By which I
meant I’d done hard time dealing with the SCOURGE elite squad.
Those leading
lights of the Service Club Of Upper River Gulch Environs could decide that a
completely insane idea made perfect sense—and then act on it.
Ever since I
moved home it had fallen to my lot to get them out of trouble since keeping
them out of it was impossible.
“Have you seen Sarkisian?” I asked.

Theresa shook her head.
“Do you have something to tell him?”
She lowered her voice to almost a whisper so I could barely hear her over the
noise of the parade.
“About the murders?”

Actually I just wanted a comforting hug but I wasn’t about
to say that.
“I just came from the fairgrounds,” I said airily.

Her eyes widened and her tone sharpened.
“Something new has
come up, hasn’t it?
What’s going on over there?
Is it going to interfere with
the talent show?
Don’t let him stop us from holding it.
Not now.”

She sounded so dismayed I hurried to reassure her everything
was all right and I wasn’t carrying any dire news to him.
She didn’t look
convinced.

Fortunately there was a very easy way to find people these
days.
I dragged out my cell phone and punched the “2”—his speed dial number.

Only seconds passed before he answered.
“Hey beautiful.”

“Where are you?”

“At the parking lot where the parade ends.
The Grand
Marshal’s car is about to arrive.”

“I’m on my way.” I knew Sarkisian well enough to know he
wouldn’t be there, wouldn’t have mentioned the Grand Marshal’s car, if
something about it hadn’t been on his mind.
Which meant he wanted to talk to
Brian Quantrell and probably about that five thousand dollars that had appeared
in his account—before Connie would have a chance to warn him about what she’d
told us.

I skimmed the parade route, catching sight of a team of
go-karts disguised as kayaks performing a rather impressive maneuvering
routine.
Several of the riders—or paddlers—waved at me and I recognized members
of the Land’s End Yacht Club.
That gang was almost as crazy as the SCOURGEs,
which you could tell from one look at their Spanish galleon-shaped clubhouse.
I
was relieved they didn’t harbor any ill will toward me.
Not that they should of
course but one never knew.

Their shouts were drowned out by the bagpipes that marched
just ahead of them.
I’m one of the few people who actually love bagpipes.
I
reached the Boy Scouts next, marching in a twisting line that I suddenly
realized represented a rope tying itself into a bowline knot.
I actually got to
see quite a bit of the parade, racing along, trying to overtake the lead.

The route was just over a mile long and I’d started near the
beginning.
I’m the first to admit I’m not in great shape and I was panting as I
hurried the last block to the parking lot where the first several groups
already milled around in the way performers do when they’ve just finished their
turn.
No one wanted to leave yet.

In spite of the continually growing swarm of people,
Sarkisian was easy to spot.
He stood off to one side at the center of a small
clearing with only Brian Quantrell near at hand.
No one wanted to jostle a law
officer—except people like me.
I could use a little jostling with him.

I slowed my pace so I wouldn’t arrive gasping for air then
as nonchalantly as I could slipped my arm through Sarkisian’s.
“Hi Brian,” I
said brightly, considering I was still breathing hard.
“Enjoy your moment in
the spotlight?”

He rolled his eyes.
“You mean the parade or with your—” He
caught Sarkisian’s eye and changed what he’d been about to say.
“With our
sheriff?”

I tried to look innocent.
“What do you mean?”

He gave a short laugh.
I wasn’t fooling him in the least.
“I’ll save him the trouble of telling you.
You already know I had an affair
with Connie Wessex just before her husband disappeared.
I’d been idealistic
enough at the time to want to marry her.
She dumped me of course but gave me a
parting present to soften the blow.
A pretty generous one, in cash.
I haven’t
touched the money.
I’m saving it for something appropriate.”

That basically matched Connie’s version.
Of course that
didn’t make it true.

“Oh hell,” he said suddenly, looking over my shoulder.
“Here
comes the County Supervisor.
He’ll be chasing me to be his Goodwill
Ambassador.” And with that he ducked out of sight before Janowski could come up
to us.

Sarkisian looked at me.
“Productive morning?”

“I stopped a couple of fights.”

He snorted.
“Better than me then.
I can’t say I’ve
accomplished a damn thing.”

I squeezed his arm.
“You’ve learned that Connie and Brian have
their stories straight.”

“Yeah.” He gave a short laugh but I realized he was watching
Ivan Janowski looking around, apparently trying to find Quantrell.