Hot Dogs (20 page)

Janowski.
Just how seriously was Sarkisian suspecting him?
While the sheriff shared evidence freely with me he never discussed his
thoughts on the innocence or guilt of his suspects.
He claims—and rightly so—I
could never hide my reactions and therefore my knowledge from these people.
Sometimes I hate it when Sarkisian is right.

I studied Janowski who had whipped out his cell phone,
probably to harass poor Theresa into tracking down Quantrell.
Unless he had
Quantrell’s number.
After all, Quantrell was Grand Marshal.
But then Janowski
liked to delegate tasks to Theresa, probably for the simple reason that he
could.

Janowski.
I dragged my thoughts back to his potential as a
suspect.
He’d had a fight with Lee Wessex at the fireworks show last year over
Connie.
He could easily have followed him out to where his car was parked
beside that storage shed, grabbed Quantrell’s golf club and hit him over the
head, possibly out of rage and without any definite intention to kill him.

As for Pete Norton…well, Pete might have guessed something
about Wessex’s murder.
Or Pete might have delivered a threat from Hank Kaufmann
and Janowski might have been either frightened or angry enough to strike out at
the man, assuming we’d believe the two murders to be related.
Oh damn, Pete
probably had been killed because of what he’d guessed.

I sighed.
Connie, Theresa, Lizzie, Quantrell, Vanderveer,
Janowski—they all had motives and opportunity for both deaths and there were
pitifully few clues that weren’t merely circumstantial.
I toyed with the
thought the murderer might be someone else altogether but Sarkisian was
thorough.
Before he ever focused on those six he’d have ruled out all other
family members, business associates and other possible candidates for likely
suspects.

Which brought me back to Vanderveer and his commandeering of
the keys to the fairgrounds.
On the off chance Sarkisian didn’t already know
about this—and it was slim, the man always seems to know everything—I told him.

He eyed me with that fond smile that sometimes makes me melt
and other times makes me want to hit him.
“Any idea how long he was there
before he unlocked the gate?” He also gets straight to the point.

“He said he was just arriving.
The Foodies who were waiting
can confirm which way he came from.
But he could have been and gone any time
during the night.”

“To do what?” Now the damn man sounded amused.

“How should I know?
I—”

With typically annoying timing my phone sang out with Aunt
Gerda’s voice.
“Annike, dear, I know you’re probably busy but would you mind
answering?
I’d like to talk to you.
Annike?
Are you there?”

Before it could continue I tapped my earpiece.
“Where are
you?”

“I didn’t see you at the parade.” She sounded concerned.

“I’ve been a bit busy.
But I got to see a little of it.
What
about you?”

“I stood near the beginning so I could get away quickly.
I’m
over at the fairgrounds now,” my beloved aunt assured me, “and Mr.
Vanderveer
is shouting at all the food booth people and no one is listening to him.
I’m
really afraid you ought to come over and tell him to be a little more polite.”

“Right.
On my way.” I disconnected and glanced at Sarkisian.

“Duty calls?” he asked.

I nodded.
“See you at the picnic.”

I kissed him quickly and strode off to prevent another
disaster—such as someone hauling off and hitting Vanderveer over the head out
of sheer frustration with the man.
I shuddered.
Before the end of the day, it
just might be me doing the hitting.

Chapter Sixteen

I’d barely started Freya’s engine and begun the intricate
maneuvers to get out of the parking space when my phone rang again, this time
with “Light My Fire.” Someone from the fireworks company.
Damn, what with the
optometrists and the hygienists I’d forgotten to call them.
I tapped the
earpiece, identified myself and braced for whatever new problem awaited.

“We’re just pulling off the freeway,” announced a man’s
cheerful voice.
“Will there be anyone waiting at the gate to let us in?”

I groaned.
These guys and their huge truck were supposed to
have been there yesterday afternoon when there wouldn’t have been a lot of
people and cars potentially in their way.
At the latest I’d hoped they’d arrive
with the dawn.
But no, they’d picked what amounted to the beginning of rush
hour to put in their bulky appearance.
Well at least they were here and the
promised fireworks exhibition wasn’t going to go up in the proverbial smoke.

“The gate’s unlocked,” I assured the man.
“Just be careful
going through the parking lot.”

“Right.” And with that he disconnected.

The next hour passed in a blur for me.
I raced from venue to
venue making sure everything proceeded with as few hitches as possible.
The
fireworks company had six men on the job and they hurried through their
preparations, securing the various sets of rockets into holders and checking
their launching equipment or whatever they called it.
I didn’t stick around
long enough to be sure of all the technical terms.
I had other places to be,
other hands to hold—or slap.

Out of desperation I sent Vanderveer into the auditorium to
begin checking lights and sound in case our gremlin had been playing games with
us again.
I also asked him to make sure the programs were ready to be passed
out by the ushers—members of the SCOURGEs overseen by the ever-efficient Faith
Alvarez.

The Boy Scouts—six different troops of the little
darlings—were actually setting up their various games and craft booths under
the watchful eyes of their Senior Patrol Leaders and even more watchful eyes of
the Scout Masters and their Assistant Scout Masters.
All peaceful there.
For
the moment.

I next did the rounds of the Foodies where the heavenly—and
spicy—aromas of at least seventeen different chilis wafted out to greet me.
I
grabbed my opportunity—and a bowl of Charlie’s creation—and sat for a few
minutes eating an early lunch with my aunt.
Then it was off again to check the
cotton candy machines—three of them—which were in full production preparing for
the beginning of the cotton candy sculpting contest.
Mental note to self—stay
clear of the inevitable sticky mess but make sure the booths supplied
sufficient wet wipes for the participants.

After that I veered into the locale where the Berry Recipe
contest would be held, mostly to get a good whiff of the pies, cobblers and
other concoctions being prepared for the taste tests.
Perhaps I could pull a
few strings and get myself onto that judging panel.
In my dreams.
I wouldn’t
have the time to stay in one place for as long as the contest would take.

People began to flock into the picnic area.
It had looked
huge and empty except for the booths and trailers before.
Now it began to look
crowded.
It might mean more chaos but it was a very good thing financially.
Merit County First would be taking in quite a haul which meant that all our
local charities would benefit during the coming year.
And hopefully everyone
would think my fee had been worth the extra money brought in by my added
events.

In the distance one of the high school bands struck up
Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever”.
It grew louder as the musicians came
closer, headed… I raced for the auditorium’s front steps, which I knew would be
their destination.

I arrived to find John Goulding just coming out of the
building.
“What’s the rush?” he asked as I paused at the edge of the parking
lot.

“Has Sarkisian cleared the use of this side?” I demanded.
I’d forgotten to ask and he’d forgotten to tell me.

“It’s okay,” he assured me.
“We’re just keeping people out
of the parking lot still though it doesn’t seem likely we can get anything more
from that storage building.
Now, inside’s another matter.
I’ve got the area
where Pete Norton was killed all blocked off with a proper barrier, not just
yellow tape.” He spread his feet and folded his arms, a sure sign he was
settling in for a nice gossipy chat about the murders.
“Got any impressions
about that crew you’ve been working with?
That Connie Wessex, she sure looks
like a determined woman and not one to take what her husband did lightly.” He
regarded me hopefully.
“And that Theresa delGuardia.
Now there’s a woman I
wouldn’t want to cross.
Although there’s something I don’t quite like about
Edward Vanderveer.
He’s in there now, bustling around, getting into everything.”

“It’s where he needs to be.” I almost had to shout now over
the strident tones of the trombones and sousaphones.
“I’ll just go see how he’s
doing.” I hurried past John.

He followed me and slammed the door behind us.
Apparently he
wasn’t a music lover—at least not at that volume.
“How’s everything going out
there?” he asked.

I refrained from shuddering.
“Noisy and busy.
Which means a
successful event.”

We found Edward Vanderveer slumped in one of the folding
chairs near the stage door, eyeing the movable panels the sheriff’s department
had put up around the area where we’d found Pete’s body.
He looked up at our
approach.
“I still don’t understand why anyone would kill him,” he said.
“He
was such a nice guy.” He focused on John.
“Are you any closer to figuring out
this mess?”

“Don’t you worry,” the deputy said in his best
keep-the-public-calm voice.
“The sheriff knows what he’s doing.”

“And what most other people have been doing as well,” I
added but under my breath.

“The sheriff,” Vanderveer said in a musing tone.
“Yes, I
think so.” He looked up at me.
“Where is he?”

I shook my head.
“I haven’t seen him for quite a while.
Do
you need to talk to him?”

“What?
Oh no, nothing special.
I-I just wanted to ask him a
question.”

The muted tones of a loudspeaker apparently manned by Ivan
Janowski rang out, announcing the beginning of the balloon contests—one of the
scouts’ offerings.
There were categories for blowing and tying speed, for size
without popping and even sculptures.
I’ve never been fond of exploding balloons
so I’d already decided to give that venue a wide berth if at all possible.

Vanderveer however straightened.
“What’s that damn man doing
with that loudspeaker?” he demanded.

“It’s his assigned job.” I’d already checked my notes for
that.

Vanderveer huffed.
“He’ll make a mull of it.”

I doubted Theresa would let that happen but I kept quiet.

Vanderveer transferred his glare to John.
“The talent show
acts can still use the dressing rooms, can’t they?”

The deputy cast a quick glance down the hallway that led to
the various storage and dressing rooms and the stairs to the basement.
“All
clear,” he assured us.

“Good.” Vanderveer pulled out his phone and peered at the
digital display of the time.
“The first acts won’t be trying to get in for at
least an hour.
Think I’ll go check out the picnic.” And with that he took his
leave.

“What’s got into him today?” John asked as the stage door
slammed behind Vanderveer.

“Event jitters?” I suggested.
“The ongoing battle for
supremacy over Ivan Janowski?
Two murders?
All of the above?” And was he on his
way to find Sarkisian?
If so, why?

John nodded.
“I—”

My phone rang with “C is for Cookie”, interrupting him and
he wandered off while I went to deal with the complaint of one of the amateur
contestants in the ice cream flavor event.

This one was a mess—in more ways than one.
When I reached
the area set aside for the judging I found three men—one wearing a judge’s
sash—and a woman standing inches apart, all shouting.
A group of spectators had
gathered around and I heard loud cracks about taking bets on who would win the
fight.

I sighed and waded in.
“What’s up?” I asked brightly to
counteract the sinking sensation in my stomach.
At least they weren’t hitting
each other over the head with inflatable ice cream cones.

“He took a bribe,” shouted one of the men.

“I didn’t,” yelled the judge right back in his face.

I winced.
Somewhere nearby there would probably be a
reporter.
TV, radio, print—it didn’t matter.
The county didn’t need allegations
of corruption.

All four combatants were yelling again so I did as well.

“Quiet!”

It was so unexpected it worked.
They fell silent and stared
at me.
“You.” I pointed to the man who had made the accusation.
“What makes you
think this judge took a bribe?”

“He took an envelope from her.” He jerked his head toward
the woman in the group.

The woman glared at him.
“He did no such—”

“Quiet,” I repeated, interrupting her.
I turned back to the
first man.
“If he took an envelope, where did he put it?”

“Inside coat pocket.”

That sounded pretty definite.
I regarded the judge.
“Just to
settle this would you mind showing him what—if anything—is in your pocket?”

“How dare you?” The judge stared at me in an outrage that
didn’t quite ring true, possibly because of the hint of bluster in it.
“I’ll do
no such thing.
You have no right to ask me.”

Janowski and Sarkisian arrived together, Janowski looking
harassed, Sarkisian mildly amused.
“What’s going on?” the sheriff asked.
He
held up his hand to stop everyone from speaking at once then raised his
eyebrows at me.
I explained and he nodded.
“Right.
Mr.
Janowski, we’ll have to
remove this judge and—”

“It was only a certificate for some free ice cream,” the
ex-judge protested.

Sarkisian shook his head.
“Bribery and corruption are very
serious charges, sir.”

The man stared at him aghast as if he expected Sarkisian to
whip out a pair of handcuffs and drag him off to jail at once.

“Right,” I said quickly.
“You’re eliminated from the
competition,” I told the woman.

“By what right—” the woman began.

“I’m in charge here,” Janowski interrupted.
“If anyone is
getting eliminated, I’ll eliminate them.
You’re eliminated.” And with that
Janowski strode off.

Lizzie, surrounded by red, white and blue poodles hurried
over.
Apparently she’d gone home to collect the dachshunds for her performance
later because she had Mazda tucked under her arm and Roomba scoured the ground
for anything she could vacuum up.
“What’s going on?” Lizzie looked worried.
“We
don’t want any fuss,” she told me in an urgent under voice.
“We want people
spending money.”

“They are,” I assured her.
“You’re still free to sell ice
cream,” I told the woman who had given the bribe.

She brightened.
“I’m not being kicked out completely?”

“She ought to be,” said her accuser.

I shook my head.
“She didn’t bribe anyone to get her place
here and she paid a fee—to Merit County First—just like you did.” I caught
Sakrisian’s arm and led him away.

“What had Janowski so upset?” I asked as we distanced
ourselves from the recent battleground.

“He was caught by a reporter.” Sarkisian grinned.
“The woman
wanted to know how well he knew Pete Norton and was fishing for whatever she
could get about Janowski’s fight with Wessex last year.
She’d even dug up their
old high school feud.”

“I bet he greeted you like an old friend just to get away
from her.”