Hot Dogs (2 page)
“It’s been a whole damn year,” Ivan Janowski proclaimed, his
voice rising in irritation as I neared.
“They can’t possibly declare the whole
fairgrounds a crime scene.
I’ll take it up with the
other
county
supervisors if I have to.” He rarely let slip the chance to remind everyone of
his status as one of those supervisors.
It made me glad I hadn’t voted for him.
“Only this area, I should imagine,” came Brian Quantrell’s
much calmer tones.
“So many cars will have come through here that any evidence
that might still be around will be badly contaminated.”
“So suddenly you’re a forensics expert?” Janowski demanded.
Quantrell grinned.
“Just repeating what Ramirez and John
were arguing about.
You should try listening to people sometime.
It’s amazing
what you can learn.
Hey Pete,” he called as the short chunky figure of Pete
Norton, groundskeeper for the fairgrounds, came out from behind the storage
building with Roberta Dominguez, another of the forensics team.
Pete Norton’s rounded jaw set.
“I don’t know anything more
now than I did five minutes ago.
When they make an official ruling they’ll let
us all know.”
“But you’re groundskeeper,” Janowski protested as the man
came closer.
“Can’t you make them listen to reason?”
Pete halted, his hands thrust in the pockets of his navy
work pants.
“Oh,
they’re
being more than reasonable.
Downright tolerant.
They haven’t sent you away yet, have they?”
Janowski turned from him, which brought him face to face
with me.
He glowered although he also gave me a short nod of acknowledgment.
“Ms.
Mckinley.
I suppose they’ve told you what we found when we unlocked that
damn storage shed this morning?”
“A whole lot of trouble?”
At that some of the rancor left his face.
“Yeah.
I just hope
they let us use some of the decorations.
If not—” He shook his head.
“The
county can’t afford to buy more.”
It was amazing what could be done with several rolls of
crepe paper and a few bags of blow-your-own balloons, none of which cost much
but I refrained from pointing that out.
“So he was killed—or at least put in
there—after the decorations had been put away.” Which meant he could have died
at any time between then and now.
Janowski shrugged.
“He was way in the back, covered by a
tarp and a ton of buntings.
But I suppose whoever put him in there could have
covered him up.” He sounded uncertain.
Pete shook his head.
“Then someone would have had to get
hold of a key.
Everything looks pretty much the way we left it when we shoved
things in there and locked up on the fifth last year.”
Janowski turned to stare at him.
“You mean you wouldn’t have
noticed that odd bundle just lying there?
You’d just have thrown things on top
of him?”
Pete shrugged.
“The committee members were helping.
I
imagine nobody gave a large bundle in there a second thought.”
What a burial, to have your body completely unnoticed and
covered in seasonal decorations.
A shiver raced along my spine.
Janowski shook his head.
“This is all such a mess.
I wish we
hadn’t discovered Wessex’s body until after the Fourth.”
“Does make decorating a bit difficult, doesn’t it?”
Quantrell agreed though he didn’t sound overly concerned.
“I mean,” Janowski informed him, “so the big celebration
wouldn’t be tainted by tragedy.”
Janowski had been the one who had convinced the County Board
of Supervisors to hire me.
I suppose I couldn’t blame him for being worried
that if the event didn’t come off he’d be in the doghouse for convincing
everyone to spend money on me.
Not that they’d pay me more than the
cancellation fee of course.
But still, in our county every dollar counts.
I’d
forgo the fee completely except every dollar counted in my meager bank account
too.
He focused on me.
“Can’t you use your influence with the
sheriff’s department?” he demanded.
I blinked.
“How?”
He shrugged.
“Get them to keep all this quiet?
Make sure we
can hold all our events?”
He wanted me to make the attendant unpleasantness of murder
go away.
Much as I might want to, that was well beyond my powers.
But never, ever, let a client believe you can’t do the
impossible.
Rule Number One for any business venture like mine.
I fixed a smile on my face.
“Sarkisian is reasonable,” I
assured him.
“There’s nothing to stop the parade, the fireworks should be able
to go on as planned, the picnic area is far enough away from here not to be
affected,” and since the picnic and its attendant contests were my idea this
was important to me, “and if we use a different parking lot for the auditorium
I don’t see why we can’t hold the talent show as planned.”
“But what about the signups and tryouts?” Janowski demanded.
“That’s what we’re here for today, remember?
The show is only two days away.”
His voice rose on a note of panic.
“And if we don’t collect all the last-minute
registration forms for the parade, how can we get it organized?
There’ll be
bands and drill teams and equestrian units and floats and…” His voice trailed
off as more categories apparently escaped him.
Poor guy, he wouldn’t last long as a supervisor if he let
something as minor as a complete oversetting of all his plans distress him.
That was just par for the course.
Janowski looked around.
“Theresa?
Damn it, where is she?
Theresa?”
A middle-aged woman in a business suit, her black hair
slicked back in a bun at the nape of her neck, straightened from where she
leaned against an SUV.
“Yes Mr.
Janowski?”
“Where’s the itinerary?” he snapped.
“And for god’s sake get
off my car.
You might scratch it.”
The woman jumped, her expression dismayed.
She almost ran
the few steps to present a red, white and blue notebook to him with all the air
of a suppliant making an offering she wasn’t certain would be acceptable.
“I’m
sorry, Mr.
Janowski.” Her worshipful gaze lifted to his face then lowered again.
Suppliant might be exactly the right word, I realized.
Though why anyone would worship that colossal ass Janowski was beyond me.
He snatched the notebook, leaving her in possession of the
steno pad and pen she also held and waved her away.
She retreated once more to
the SUV, started to lean against it again only to spring erect.
He flipped through several pages, paused to scan one then
flipped to another.
“Quantrell,” he muttered and looked up to glare at the
paramedic.
“You know what you’re supposed to be doing?”
“Standing around looking picturesque?” Quantrell asked.
Even though he joked he didn’t look happy.
I remembered his
reluctance to become involved in the parade and wondered about it again.
Most
people would be thrilled to get a whole day in the limelight.
“Don’t be more of a damn idiot than you can help,” Janowski
snapped.
“You’re our Goodwill Ambassador to the community.
Think you can
remember that?”
Quantrell looked uncomfortable at the idea.
“Yeah.
I have to
walk around garnering publicity and convincing everyone that every penny they
spend goes to local charities.”
Janowski regarded him suspiciously for a long moment then
nodded.
“Right.”
“But I won’t go out of my way to hush up poor Wessex’s
murder.
If someone asks me about it, I’ll tell them the truth.”
“Damn it, quit being such a Boy Scout,” Janowski snapped,
thereby proving how little he knew of some of the more ingenious and
disreputable members of that normally honorable institution.
The boys Quantrell
had saved, as I remembered, had been Scouts, though their leader had shared
more than a few choice anecdotes with the sheriff’s department about that
pair’s unauthorized behavior on other occasions.
“Why don’t we dedicate this year’s celebrations to him?”
asked Pete Norton, who watched Quantrell and Janowski as if they were the best
entertainment around.
Ivan Janowski glared at him.
“In case you’ve forgotten, Lee
Wessex made off with all the funds from last year’s event.”
I frowned.
“But he didn’t.
He was killed.”
Quantrell stared at me.
“That’s right.
He probably tried to
stop the real thief and got murdered for his efforts.
Which in my book makes
him a hero.”
“And what about the rest of the money he stole?” Janowski
demanded.
Another car pulled through the gate and rumbled toward us,
the old gray two-door that was Sarkisian’s personal car and which he drove when
not on official department business.
I took a step toward where he parked next
to Freya then forced myself to remain where I stood.
This was not the time or
place for a proper greeting.
As much as I wanted to throw myself into his arms
and tell him he was going to marry me at once and no more objections on his
part, I couldn’t.
Not in front of so many people.
Besides, even before he could
climb out, every member of his department who was present crowded around him,
all talking at once.
For a long moment he met my gaze over other people’s heads—pretty
easy considering he’s six foot two and I’m six foot one.
“Thank god you’re back,” John Goulding exclaimed, his voice
carrying to where I stood as he claimed Sarkisian’s attention.
“Now you’re here
you can take over this investigation.”
“Amen to that,” muttered Janowski.
“At least someone
reasonable will be in charge.” He glanced toward Theresa delGuardia who
remained erect beside his precious SUV.
“Damn nuisance but I suppose he’ll need
her for questioning.”
“He will?” That surprised me.
“You didn’t know?” Janowski looked honestly surprised.
“She
was Wessex’s administrative assistant.
She didn’t start working for me until
after he disappeared.
If anyone has a clue what he might have been up to, it
would be Theresa.
Oh damn,” he added.
“He’ll also need to notify Wessex’s wife,
Connie.”
Quantrell cast Janowski a sideways look.
“Don’t you want to
be the one to tell her she’s now a widow?
Though you might have to remind her
to at least appear to grieve.”
Janowski flushed.
“That’s a job for the sheriff.” And with
that he strode away from the crowd.
I looked at Quantrell and raised my eyebrows.
The paramedic’s eyes gleamed.
“He was having an affair with
Connie Wessex at the time her husband disappeared,” he explained.
“Even so,” I protested, “she’s bound to be at least a little
distressed.”
He gave a short laugh.
“Relieved, more likely.
Now she’ll be
able to collect his life insurance money.
Not that she needs it.”
A red sports car—more than forty years newer than my
Mustang—pulled through the gates and slowed as the driver apparently took in
the size and composition of the crowd.
“And speak of the devil,” Quantrell said.
“Here she is,
incarnate.”
Chapter Two
The sports car inched forward then abruptly sped up and
swept into a parking space not far from mine.
A gorgeous creature dressed in a
striking tight red skirt and white lace blouse climbed out, ran fingers through
her fluffy platinum blonde hair and looked around uncertainly.
Despite Brian
Quantrell’s comment I couldn’t see any signs of horns, tails or cloven hooves.
That didn’t mean they weren’t there metaphorically, of course.
She strolled forward on her stiletto heels.
After a moment Quantrell
detached himself from my side and strolled to meet her.
I tagged along.
“What’s going on?” Connie Wessex demanded by way of
greeting.
“Have you met Sheriff Sarkisian?” Quantrell asked her.
“Brian,” she began.
Interesting.
The hero paramedic was on a first name basis
with the woman he called the “devil incarnate”?
I hoped I’d learn the story
behind that but knew better than to count on it.
At least on getting the true
version.
Already Quantrell had turned from her.
“Hey, Sarkisian.” He
waved both hands over his head as if his shout wouldn’t have been enough.
He hadn’t actually needed either.
Sarkisian already strode
toward us, his expression the proper mixture of somberness and sympathy.
I’d
seen him wear it before when he’d had to break the news of a death to a new
widow.
He caught my eye and I sighed.
No getting out of it, I’d have to stand
by with a comforting shoulder if necessary.
This was one of my least favorite
activities but Sarkisian preferred my company for this task to that of Becky,
one of his deputies, or Jennifer, the sheriff department’s day shift dispatcher.
“Ms.
Wessex?” he asked though it was obvious someone had
already identified her for him.
“What’s going on?” she demanded again.
John Goulding claimed Quantrell, leaving Sarkisian and me to
deal with Connie Wessex.
The sheriff looked her over and I could see him
mentally sizing her up with whatever he’d already been told about her and her
marriage.
He was good at that.
Luckily.
He almost always took the right tack
with people.
“I’m afraid the body of your husband has been found.”
“The—” She broke off and looked around as if she expected to
see him lying in the middle of the parking lot.
An odd light flickered in her
eyes only to vanish behind her lowering lids.
“Did you find my jewelry?”
Interesting response.
Not “what happened?” or “how did he
die?” or even “how long has he been dead?”.
No.
She went straight for what must
be to her the essential point.
Did that mean she already knew the answers to
those other questions?
Sarkisian waited with his brows raised, his features set in
that understanding smile that lured people into talking too much.
Color flooded her cheeks.
“Finally,” she said.
“Now he can
be cleared of being labeled a thief.
But this—” She broke off, shaking her
head.
“I think I’ve known all along he had to be dead.
I’m just glad he’s
finally been found.”
“What made you think he was dead?” Sarkisian pursued, his
tone one of sympathetic curiosity.
“Well, he’d never have stolen anything if he hadn’t been
forced to do it.
And he never would have stayed away if he’d been able to come
back to me.
So whoever coerced him into stealing had to have killed him.
Ivan,”
she called, turning away from Sarkisian.
“You’ve been dismissed,” I murmured.
“Wish that meant I could have a few minutes alone with you,”
he murmured back.
I sighed.
“No such luck.”
Ivan Janowski strode over and took Connie’s outstretched
hands with an almost believable expression of sympathy on his face.
“I’m so
sorry, Connie.”
She pulled free.
“This only confirmed my fears.
Now,” and
she got down to business, “I want to be included in every part of this year’s
activities, Ivan.”
Janowski’s brow snapped down.
“But—”
“I want to lend a hand with everything,” she repeated.
“As a
tribute to my late husband.
He would have wanted me to help out this year in
his place.
I know he would.
And,” she turned back to Sarkisian, “you must keep
me informed on the progress of the investigation.”
Sarkisian’s eyebrows rose slightly.
She flushed.
“You must see this has everything to do with
me.
I want my husband’s name cleared as soon as possible.
And I want to make
sure everyone involved in last year’s event—and this year’s, for that
matter—knows he was innocent.”
Sarkisian gave her that smile that so often convinced
people—falsely—that he agreed with them completely.
“What brought you out here
this morning?”
She blinked large, innocent eyes at him.
“Why the sign-ups
for the talent show of course.
They
are
taking place this morning,
aren’t they?”
“We’ll be starting as soon as everything settles down a
bit,” I said and could only hope I was right.
She gave me a cool stare and a short nod, acknowledging my
presence for the first time.
“You’d be that event coordinator I suppose.
The
other members of my string quartet would be devastated if we missed this
opportunity to present our newest piece.”
I’d heard about her exclusive—and highly snobbish—musical
group.
What I hadn’t known was that they’d condescend to play at anything less
distinguished than a formal concert.
So was that really why she was here?
Or
had she known the body of her husband lay in that storage shed and would be
discovered as soon as the committee got to work today?
The sign-ups gave her an
excellent excuse to be present when he was found.
Of course it gave the same excuse to anyone else too.
Everyone in the whole damn county knew that today was the day we were beginning
the set-up and would be digging around in the storage shed.
It had been
announced in the papers and on the radio and even the local TV stations to sign
up for things starting at nine this morning.
“Annike,” Brian Quantrell called.
“Come over here for a
minute?” He still stood with John Goulding but now Theresa delGuardia and Pete
Norton had joined them.
“Duty calls,” Sarkisian told me with an almost straight
face.
“‘Duty is before all’,” I shot back, not one to miss such an
obvious chance to quote Gilbert and Sullivan at him.
“‘At any price I will do
my duty’.”
“‘Bravely spoken’,” he assured me, proving I wasn’t the only
one who could remember that group of lines.
“Tell him,” Quantrell jerked his head toward John Goulding,
“we are not going to cancel the talent show.”
“I never said—” John began.
“The decision isn’t up to Ms.
McKinley,” Theresa delGuardia
declared.
“The decision,” said Pete, “is up to the gods.
Or at least
the sheriff.” He folded his arms, his stern expression belied by the twinkle of
amusement in his eyes.
Quantrell grinned.
“They aren’t one and the same.”
Theresa raised her voice.
“The decision will be made by Mr.
Janowski.
He’s the committee chairman, after all.”
John glared at her.
“He’s not chairman of the murder
investigation.”
“There’s no point in arguing about it,” I said quickly.
“If
we can’t hold the show here we’ll use the high school gym.” I made sure I
sounded more confident than I felt.
The school board would probably let us use
the building—provided the county came up with a hefty insurance fee and
bestowed a generous gift, such as new band uniforms or computer equipment.
It
was amazing what a bribe like that could do in these days of educational budget
cuts.
John brightened.
“That would solve a lot of problems.”
For him, maybe.
I considered the logistics of alerting everyone
in the county about a change in venues and wished I’d never opened my mouth.
Theresa’s chin rose.
“It will be best if we hold it here.”
“If we do…” John’s words trailed off and he frowned as he
surveyed the parking lot and the impressive front doors of the auditorium that
faced us.
He shook his head.
“We can’t have people using this lot.
For today at
least.”
Quantrell followed the direction of his gaze.
“Why not just cordon
off this whole parking area with your crime scene tape?
Pete and his crew could
set up posts and ropes to guide people around a different way.”
Pete shook his head.
“This is the service entrance where all
the trucks and trailers will need to come through for the picnic and fireworks
show.
That talent show isn’t the only thing that’s happening.
Or not
happening,” he added with all the air of one throwing a pigeon into a roomful
of cats.
Everyone started to speak at once so I raised my voice.
“Let’s
deal with one thing at a time.
The auditorium isn’t part of the crime scene, is
it?” I caught John’s eye.
“So we’ll just guide people somewhere other than the
front doors.
Why don’t we look around to see if there’s another entrance that’s
suitable?
For today at least,” I added, mimicking John Goulding.
This surprisingly met with everyone’s approval.
I shooed
them ahead of me as if they were a bunch of clucking chickens—which at the
moment they honestly resembled.
We were just rounding the side of the building headed toward
the stage door when Sarkisian caught up.
He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me
close.
I heard the others continuing without me and for a blissful moment
allowed my cheek to rest against the sheriff’s shoulder.
“It’s another madhouse for you, isn’t it?” he said against
the side of my head.
“And for you.”
He grinned.
“We’ve got to stop meeting this way.”
“Fine by me.
I’ve got a much better idea—when we can get a
few minutes away from everyone.”
“Sarkisian,” Janowski shouted.
The sheriff sighed.
“I’ll look forward to it.” He dropped a
quick kiss on my forehead and returned to where Janowski stood with Connie
Wessex.
Even before I caught up with the others the dulcet tones of
Pete and Quantrell arguing drifted out to greet me.
Bracing my resolve, I
mounted the steps—mental note to self, this entrance wasn’t wheelchair
assessable—and strode in to discover what the latest bone of contention was.
Quantrell looked up at me, his expression exasperated.
“Since you seem to be in charge—”
“It’s Mr.
Janowski who is in charge,” Theresa interrupted.
“Mr.
Janowski is busy right now,” I said quickly.
And I
could only hope he wasn’t trying Sarkisian’s patience too badly.
“How can I
help?” Rule Number Two in my business is always appear willing—no matter how
much you want to beat the clients’ heads together.
“Explain to Norton here that we’ve got to establish a clear
route for the ambulances and emergency vehicles,” Quantrell ordered me.
How many was he planning on needing?
I shoved that worrisome
thought aside.
“Those have to take priority over everything else,” he went
on.
He was right of course.
“Not over a murder investigation,” John stuck in.
“I have to take my orders from the sheriff,” Pete said.
“You
know that, Quantrell.”
“Annike—” Quantrell appealed to me.
I held up my hands.
“I can’t tell Sarkisian how to run his
investigation.”
John snorted but fortunately held his tongue.
“The routes that we’ve always used won’t be affected by the
crime scene,” Pete said grudgingly.
“There’s plenty of room for the vehicles to
get through if necessary.”
He’d been teasing the Fourth of July Committee?
That was the
last thing I needed with everyone already so on edge.
I shot him a quelling
look but he met it with a bland smile.
I hadn’t realized Pete Norton enjoyed
stirring up trouble.
I’d have to keep an eye on him in the future.
