Hot Dogs (24 page)

Chapter Twenty

“I-I can’t,” Lizzie protested.
“It’ll ruin me and you know I
need the money.”

Her Uncle Martin hugged her.
“So what’s the worst that can
happen?”

“Everyone will know,” she wailed.

“So what?
You’ve still got a damn good act.”

My shock at hearing Lizzie told to confess changed to
bewilderment.
What had her act to do with her committing three murders?
And
earning money from Hot Dogs would be the least of her worries once she was
faced with lawyers and trial and prison.

“As long as it doesn’t have any bearing on the case,”
Sarkisian said in his most reassuring tones, “there’s no need for it to come
out.”

She blinked back the tears that had formed in her eyes.
“You
mean that?”

“I’ve never seen any point in revealing people’s secrets as
long as they aren’t illegal.
And there’s nothing illegal about what you’ve been
doing.
It’s a bit of misrepresentation, true but I don’t see why you don’t turn
it into a double act.”

“A lot more than double if you count the little Hot Dogs,”
her Uncle Martin said cheerfully.
“But I never wanted any part of performing.
That’s why I’ve helped Lizzie—pushed her into it I suppose.
And you have to
admit she does a great act.
Far better than I could do.
And even if people
knew,” he told Lizzie sternly, “no one would care you don’t train them
yourself.”

“I care.” She sniffed.
“I’ve tried.
You know how hard I’ve
tried.
They just won’t listen to me unless we’re doing a performance.
You’re
the only one who’s ever been able to get them to do anything.”

I can really be slow sometimes.
All the clues were
there—Lizzie’s frequent consultations with this man, the fact the dogs tended
to run amok when in her charge, even their occasional lapses on the stage.
And
her desire to keep her secret just that—a secret—explained the vagueness of her
alibis, her inaccuracies about where and with whom she’d been.

“That was a lot of fuss over something so minor,” I
complained as Sarkisian and I left the barn and strolled back toward the noisy
crowd.

He shook his head.
“Having people believe she was the dogs’
trainer was part of her image—in control and capable.
You heard what she said
about trying.
She probably feels like just another of the dogs, trained by her
uncle to do her part.”

“Poor Lizzie.” But I knew why she put herself through the
charade.
She loved the furry little beasts even if she couldn’t train them.
She’d need the money from the performances to pay the bills for the vet and buy
them doggie chow and biscuit treats and everything else I knew she lavished on
them.

“Of course that still doesn’t put her in the clear for the
murders,” Sarkisian said.

I considered.
“No,” I agreed at last.
“It doesn’t.”

The picnic grounds were getting crowded as Becky and John
finished their chore of gathering names.
I ought to make the rounds of the
cooks to make sure everything was going all right for the barbecue.
I didn’t
want to leave Sarkisian’s side though.
The memory of Edward Vanderveer’s body lying
on top of me was going to haunt me for some time.

“Where now?” I asked.

He slipped his arm around my waist.
“Arm hurting?” He always
seemed to know.

“I’m okay,” I lied.
Actually it had begun to throb again and
it wasn’t that long since I’d swallowed one of Sarah’s little pills.
That
didn’t bode well for the future.
“I need to check on the fireworks again,” I
said reluctantly.
“Weren’t you on your way to find Connie Wessex?”

“If I can find her in this crowd.” He kissed my forehead.
“Watch your step.”

I glared at him.
“You know perfectly well I rarely fall down
more than once a day.” I kissed him quickly and strode off—watching where I put
my feet.

The feverish activity in the arena continued.
It was
beginning to look like they were almost finished though which raised my
spirits.
I spotted the foreman checking the braces for one of the sets and
crossed the dirt to join him.

“When—” I began but got no further.

“About an hour,” he promised without looking up.
He
tightened a bolt, shook the structure which didn’t move and sat back on his
heels.
Only then did he turn his head.
“We’ll be ready to start about fifteen
minutes later than planned.
That all right with you?”

“That,” I said with all sincerity, “is amazing.
I’ll leave
you to it.”

“Good.” He rose and stalked over to the next structure and
began testing it for security.

Duty done.
They’d be better off without me peering over
their shoulders.
Which meant on to the next duty.
Time to visit the cooks.

I made a circle of the food area.
All around me people seemed
to be enjoying themselves which was a good thing for me from a business point
of view.
I was also grateful Vanderveer’s murder was being kept quiet for as
long as possible.
I wasn’t up to answering questions about it.

The lines at each of the booths and vans assured me that all
the vendors would be making enough money on this event so they wouldn’t have
cause to complain.
Some probably would anyway but that was inevitable.
Several
of the chefs waved to me.
Others were too busy to notice me until I eased
myself between indignant customers who thought I was line jumping.
No problems,
no worries, no fights—so far.

I heaved a sigh of relief and headed toward Charlie’s area.
Aunt Gerda would be there and after the day I’d had I could use a good dose of
her sympathy.
I suspected it would do me more good than all of Sarah’s little
pills.

I found Sarkisian first which surprised me.
“Did you locate
Connie Wessex already?” I asked.

He shook his head.
“You look just about done in.”

“Only a couple of more hours to go,” I assured him with as
much cheerfulness as I could muster.

He took my good arm and we started together toward
Charlie’s.

We’d taken no more than a dozen steps when Salvador
Rodriguez caught up with us.
He had that determined glint in his eye that warned
me barbecue would not be in our immediate future.

“We got a match on those fingerprints on the latest murder
weapon,” he announced in a low voice.

Sarkisian drew him aside.
Since he still held my arm I went
along too.
None of us said anything until we were clear of the picnic area and
part way to the auditorium, well out of hearing range of anyone who might be
interested.

“I didn’t know you’d found the weapon.” I looked from one to
the other of them.
“What was it?”

“Just a length of half-inch pipe,” Sarkisian told me.

“With traces of blood and hair on it,” added Rodriguez.

“And the match?” Sarkisian prompted the man.

“Brian Quantrell.”

Sarkisian nodded and I had the distinct impression this
didn’t surprise him.
It surprised me though.
His prints had also been on the
golf club used to kill Wessex.
If he’d killed Vanderveer, I’d have expected him
to be more careful.
After all, he had a supply of latex gloves he used in his
work.
If he’d gone to all the trouble of setting a tripwire it sounded as if
he’d done at least some planning.

I looked up at Sarkisian.
“Time to talk to Quantrell?”

“We’ll get you dinner soon.
I promise.”

“Yeah right.
I’ve heard that one before.”

Quantrell was sitting on a bench on the edge of the picnic
area, staring into space, an empty plate of something that looked very
messy—and delicious—beside him.
No, not into space I realized.
He was staring
very intently at something—or somebody.
I tried to determine who but the area
was too crowded.
It could have been anyone.

The crowd shifted and suddenly I could see Janowski and
Theresa standing close together.
They were arguing, I realized, which was not
normal.
Theresa was usually so deferential toward him.
Janowski must be driving
her mad with this event.
On the bright side—for him, at least—this might abate
a bit of her hero worship of him.
Perhaps that was what had Quantrell frowning
since it already appeared she’d been transferring some of it to him.

Janowski made a sudden violent gesture and Theresa cringed.
That alarmed me.
If Ivan Janowski was in the habit of hitting people over the
head with blunt instruments, Theresa might be in grave danger.
Of course if it
were Theresa who had been clubbing people, Janowski had better watch out.

I sighed.
Any one of these people could be guilty and I hated
not knowing which.

The incredible aroma of barbecue wafted toward me on a
sudden breeze and I realized how hungry I was getting.
I hoped this wouldn’t
take long.

Sarkisian, who’d also been scanning the crowd just as I had,
turned back to Quantrell and got right to the point.
“What were you doing with
a length of half inch pipe backstage?”

“Half inch… Oh that.” Quantrell rolled his eyes.
“Did you
take a good look at it?”

“And?” Sarkisian prompted.

“Perhaps you noticed it’s about the same length and weight
as a golf club?” He raised his arms and swung as if he actually held one.
“I
was practicing a little with it.
Hey, I was nervous.
I was trying to keep my
mind off the stage.”

He’d been practicing swings with a real golf club shortly
before Lee Wessex died.
Too convenient, perhaps?

Suddenly he frowned.
“Why?
Oh god, don’t tell me.
That’s
what was used to kill Vaderveer.
Right?”

“Anyone see you with it?” Sarkisian asked.

Quantrell’s frown deepened.
“I suppose so.
I brought it out
here so I passed lots of people in the corridor.
I didn’t tap them on the
shoulder and point it out to them though if that’s what you mean.”

“Where did you leave it?”

Quantrell gave an exaggerated sigh.
“Hell, how should I
know?
I was nervous about my performance.
I went back inside, picked up my
guitar and about two minutes later went on stage.” He shrugged.
“Maybe I left
it beside my guitar case.
I really don’t remember.”

That actually sounded more plausible than if he’d known
exactly where he’d left it and been able to give us the names of people who’d
seen him with that pipe.

Sarkisian thanked him then turned me around.
“Time to feed
you.” He guided me back toward the circle of trailers and vans and booths, the
source of the delicious smells.
“Chicken, beef, pork, ribs—looks like they’ve
got everything plus all the trimmings.
What would you like?”

“Something I can eat with one hand.” And hopefully near a
place where I could sit.
And hide for just a little while from all the noise
and bustle.
My head had begun to ache and it was almost worse than my shoulder
and arm.

We headed for Charlie’s where the wonderful aromas of his
cooking wafted out to draw us in.
A lot of other people had certainly been
drawn in by it.
Sarkisian had to elbow our way through the crowd until they saw
it was the sheriff, after which it was smooth sailing all the way to the
counter.

Aunt Gerda, who had been sitting near the back of his booth
with a plate, rose slowly to her feet and fixed me with a stern—and
worried—look.
“You’ve been getting yourself in trouble again.
How bad is it,
dear?”

She hadn’t heard about my falling down the stairs—or
probably who had fallen on top of me either.
I didn’t feel up to telling her
but I knew she’d be furious with me if I didn’t.

“Swear her to secrecy,” Sarkisian said with a sigh.

Wonderful man that he is, he understood perfectly the
consequences—if not the downright futility—of trying to keep such major news
from my beloved aunt.
So I told her—all except for where poor Edward
Vanderveer’s body had actually landed.