Hot Dogs (3 page)

Quantrell glared at him.
“The fairgrounds,” he said in an
icy tone, “is getting old.
It’s becoming a fire hazard just waiting for a
match.
Maybe we should move the location of everything this year.”

“Where to?” demanded Ivan Janowski from the doorway behind
us.
He strode in, accompanied by Connie Wessex, both scowling.
“There isn’t
anywhere else even halfway suitable.”

“There are parks,” Quantrell suggested.
“We could hold the
talent show outdoors.
It’s being held before it gets dark, you know.”

True.
Once the sun set it would be time for the fireworks
display.
Though the way things were going here, we were setting off quite a few
sparklers and bombs of our own right now.

“Outdoors?” Connie shook her head.
“My string quartet would
never agree to that.
Ivan, don’t let them.” And with that she stalked outside.

Pete Norton didn’t seem to like the idea either.
He shook
his head.
“It wouldn’t be possible.
What about the sound system?
What about
special lighting for the acts?
What about traffic and parking?”

Theresa looked up from her clipboard.
“Pete is right.
Holding the events in a park would only make for even more chaos.”

Quantrell launched into furious protests, trying to drag me
into supporting him.
I didn’t let him.
I could see ways that all of Pete’s
objections could be overcome but I kept my mouth shut.
Occasionally I could
show good judgment.

Oh hell.
No I couldn’t.
“Why are you so anxious to have all
the events moved?” I demanded of Quantrell.

He broke off in mid-tirade and stared at me.
For a wonderful
not-long-enough moment he said nothing.
Then he admitted, “I find the whole
thing creepy, okay?
Not to mention in very bad taste.
I mean Lee Wessex’s body
is lying out there.
And it’s been there for a whole year with no one finding
him.
No one even guessing he was there.” He shrugged.
“It makes me feel like
the fairgrounds have too many hiding places that no one ever goes into.
No one
ever inspects.
Some of the buildings could have unsafe areas.
Who’d know?”

John stiffened.
“Are you suggesting there are more bodies
lying around, just waiting for some poor unsuspecting soul to discover them?”

“Who found this one?” I asked to stem off the new argument.

“Me,” said Pete.
“I’d unlocked the building to have it ready
for the Fourth of July committee.
Then I strolled in to turn on lights and make
sure there weren’t any big hairy spiders lurking.” He made a face.
“I found
something much worse.”

“Much, much worse,” I agreed.

Pete gave an exaggerated shudder, apparently enjoying being
in the spotlight.
“He was lying near the back under a pile of buntings and
boxes.
I pushed a few aside to make sure there was nothing lurking there and
that moved the tarp just enough so I could see a pair of shoes sticking out.
So
I moved things a little more and saw it wasn’t a dummy.”

“Yes it was,” muttered Ivan Janowski.

“No doubt about it,” Pete went on, ignoring the
interruption.
“It was a very dead body.
Holding a sparkler in his hand,” he
added.

“Why do you call Lee Wessex a dummy?” I asked Janowski.

The man blinked.
“He stole all the money destined for Merit
County First.”

“He might have been trying to prevent the theft,” I pointed
out.

Janowski stared at me.
“My god,” he breathed.
“I’ve thought
of him as being the thief for so long it’s going to take a bit to see things
differently.
I—”

The distant sound of an engine, punctuated by high-pitched
barks, interrupted him.
We all returned outside, with Pete locking the door
behind us, in time to see a white minivan with “Hot Dogs” and a picture of a
poodle jumping through a hoop emblazoned on the side pull into the parking spot
just behind Connie Wessex’s sports car.
The door opened slowly and a dachshund
and half a dozen miniature poodles scrambled out followed more slowly by a
three-legged dachshund.
Finally a petite woman dressed in navy slacks and a
red, white and blue striped sweater emerged.
She was really quite pretty, with
piquant features and frizzy brown curls standing out in a halo around her head.
She was in her early thirties but retained that bouncy demeanor usually
associated with over-excited teenagers.
Everything about her screamed “former
cheerleader”.
Everyone in Merit County knew Lizzie Mobley, who ran—and was the
sole paid employee of—Merit County First.

Her bevy of poodles darted all over the place, greeting
people with excited yips, sniffing everyone and everything, then making a
beeline for the storage building with its cheery decoration of yellow crime
scene tape.
One of the dachshunds followed more slowly, its nose fixed to the
ground as it worked a serpentine pattern, sucking up anything loose in its
path.
The little doglet with only three-legs hobbled over to me, sat on my foot
and stared up, panting blissfully.

“Really, Mazda.” Lizzie shook her head fondly at the
amazingly solid—and heavy—houndlet.

“Mazda?” I asked.
It sounded like a strange name for a
dachshund.

Lizzie regarded me with a touch of amusement.
“You’ve seen
their commercials?
When he was a puppy he only had one speed.
Zoom.”

“They really are a nuisance,” said Connie from where she
stood at the corner of the auditorium.

Becky Deschler emerged from the building where the forensics
team apparently had taken Sarkisian.
I could see him standing in the doorway.
“Will
you kindly restrain your dogs, Lizzie?” Becky called.

“Sorry.” Lizzie called the doglets to heel.
Two complied.
The rest continued their frenzied racing around.
With a sigh she brought a
small bag out of her purse and held it up, shaking it as she strode toward
Becky and the poodles.

That did the trick.
The dogs came at a run, even the
dachshund who was imitating a vacuum cleaner.
Not Mazda though.
Lizzie turned
back and kept calling the three-legged beastie who occupied my foot and he kept
panting and staring up at me with that idiotic expression of his.
I finally
scooped him up, amazed at how heavy he was, and carried him over while Becky
filled in Lizzie on what had been found.

“Is the money there?” Lizzie asked, excited.

Becky shook her head.
“Looks like someone else must have
taken it.”

The money was all anyone seemed interested in, I noticed.
Didn’t anyone care that Lee Wessex lay dead in there?

Sarkisian emerged and signaled to the middle-aged man and a
younger woman who leaned against the hood of the ambulance.
Quantrell broke
into a trot, reaching the vehicle in time to help the other two paramedics pull
a gurney from the back.
The two who’d been waiting wheeled it toward the
building and Quantrell returned to stand with the rest of our group.
Connie
strode back to her car and climbed inside.
She didn’t start her engine but
remained there, staring in the direction of the building where her husband’s
body lay.

The forensics team emerged carrying their bags.
While the
others went straight to their vehicles, Roberta Dominguez paused to pack up the
equipment that had remained outside.
Four of the little yippy poodles raced to
help and Lizzie, Roberta and I were still struggling to get them under control
when the paramedics, followed by Dr.
Sarah, emerged with the body discreetly
enclosed in a bag.

Sarah paused to watch our chaos.
“Oh come on, Annike.
You’re
a lion tamer, aren’t you?” She was referring to one of our old jokes about my
job.
“Poodles ought to be a cinch for you.”

I held out the hefty weight of Mazda whom I still carried.
“You could help,” I suggested.

Sarah shook her head, grinning.
“I wouldn’t want to spoil your
fun.
Besides, I seem to have a job of my own waiting.” She waved to me and
strode over to where the paramedics had just loaded the gurney with its somber
burden into the back of the ambulance.
They consulted with Sarah then set forth
to deliver their passenger for autopsy.
Sarah drove off after them.
Connie
didn’t move.

Finally only Becky, John.
Salvador Rodriguez and Sarkisian
remained from the sheriff’s department to remind us that an investigation was
underway.
Well, them and the miles of yellow tape that wound all around the
storage building and a large portion of the parking lot.
The sheriff talked to
his team for a few minutes.
They nodded and headed back into the building.
Sarkisian strolled over to the group Lizzie, her dogs and I had rejoined.

Over the yipping greetings of the poodles, Lizzie demanded,
“What’s going on?”

Sarkisian shook his head.
“Give us time,” he said.
“We’ve
got a bit of sorting out to do.
As for you,” he turned to me, “I’ve got a few
questions.” He took me by the arm and escorted me to my car.

I leaned back against it, eyeing him in concern.
“You’re
tired.”

“I left pretty early this morning.
I was hoping for some
quiet time.
With you.”

“Rough finals?”

He nodded.
I sympathized completely.
Sarkisian had been in
the master’s program for about a year now.
He’d kept it a complete secret from
everyone—even me—until he could no longer work strictly through correspondence
with his professors.
Now he had to arrange blocks of time to attend school
though his professors had been agreeable about letting him work at his own
pace—super fast—and turn in papers, do internships and take his exams at a
schedule that could be worked around his duties as sheriff.
The department had
been glad to accommodate him too.
I think I was the only one who hadn’t been
happy about the amount of time he had to spend away from here.
Well, me and
that ridiculous bloodhound, Boondoggle, that had adopted him last Halloween.

“Did you find anything helpful in there?” I nodded toward
the building.
“Names written in blood, signed confessions, that sort of thing?”

He smiled.
He has the most amazing smile.
It leaves my knees
weak.
And I’m not the only one who melts under that expression.

“A paper folded neatly in his coat’s inner pocket,” he said.

I raised my eyebrows.
“Well?”

“It says ‘Don’t forget.
I know everything’.”

I felt my jaw drop and closed my mouth quickly.
“Identifiable handwriting?” Hope surged in me.
If this proved to be a short
case, that would mean Sarkisian could spend more time with me.

“Ink jet printer at a guess.”

I gave an exaggerated sigh.
“Well maybe it’ll have a few
perfect fingerprints on it.” Hey, I can dream, can’t I?
But blackmailers and
murderers and the rest of the criminal fraternity watch TV cop shows just like
everyone else and know better than to leave such obvious clues behind.

Chapter Three

Moments with Sarkisian were few and far between these days,
so I wasn’t about to waste a single one.
Already he had that touch of regret in
his eyes and I knew duty was winning out.
I leaned forward but my intention to
kiss him was thwarted.

“Annike,” came Janowski’s ill-timed shout.

I cringed, met Sarkisian’s rueful eye and sighed.
“Later, mister.
I want you alone for at least ten seconds.
Think you can arrange that?”

“Can you?” he shot back and turned once more to the
building.

Wishing I could go with him, I returned to the people who
stood together in a tight group looking worried.
Only the dogs seemed oblivious
to the atmosphere of concern.
They romped around barking and sniffing.
Except
for poor Mazda.
He leaned against Lizzie’s leg looking soulfully at me as I
approached.
As soon as I stopped beside the others, he shifted his long
muscular body until his full weight landed on my foot again.

Lizzie beamed at me.
“Mazda likes you.”

“Must be the smell of cat.” I currently lived with my Aunt
Gerda, who had seven of the furry little monsters.
I don’t think anything or
anyone who goes in or out of her house has escaped the blessing of cat hairs.

“Hey Roomba,” she called to the other dachshund, which was
spitting out something it had just inhaled.

“Roomba?” I asked.
Then I made the connection.

Apparently she saw the realization dawn on my face because
she grinned and nodded.
“It fits her perfectly.
She’s just like one of those
auto pilot vacuum cleaners, going on high power, just sucking up everything in
her path.
She’ll occasionally spit out something that isn’t edible.
But not
always.”

Ivan Janowski frowned at us.
“We need to go over the
itinerary.”

Ah, his precious itinerary.
I didn’t blame him though.
I’d be
in serious trouble if I ever lost my laptop with all the copious notes I have
to take for each event.
I’m not a naturally organized person.
I have to work at
it.
I suspected Janowski shared my problem but at least he had Theresa
delGuardia to see him through.

“I have it right here.” Theresa hovered at his elbow, a
thick wad of clipped-together papers in one hand, her ever-present steno book
and pen in the other.
Someday when my business is raking in the money I’m going
to hire a personal assistant.
As I said, I like to dream.

“Right.” Janowski took it from her and studied the top page.
“‘Talent show sign-ups and auditions’,” he read then looked up at me.
“Have you
straightened it out with the sheriff for us?” He raised his voice with these
last words.

He wasn’t staring at me now but over my shoulder, from which
I assumed Sarkisian must be nearby.
That suspicion was confirmed when the dogs
went off in a frenzy of yapping.
Roomba vacuumed her way over to him.
Even Mazda
rolled off my foot and transferred his weight to Sarkisian’s as the sheriff
took up a position not quite close enough to me.
He has a way with all dogs
though I’m not sure he’s delighted about that.

“We’d intended to hold both the sign-ups and auditions in
the auditorium,” I told him as he eyed Mazda with the expression of one who
preferred something at least the size of a bloodhound.
“If Pete doesn’t mind
the extra work we can set up signs and sawhorses to guide people into a
different parking lot then down a roundabout path to the stage door.”
Wheelchair accessible, I reminded myself.
Have to have that covered somehow
just in case it’s needed.

My laptop was still locked in Freya’s trunk.
My oversized
purse with its notebook and pen was on the front seat though.
I ran for it,
only tripping over two of the miniature poodles and returned in time to join
the procession of people and dogs bent on ascertaining whether or not we could
route the public to their destination without bringing them anywhere near the
crime scene.

I fell into step beside Sarkisian and immediately
experienced that warm fuzzy feeling I always get when he’s around.
Hey, I take
what I can get.
We exchanged a glance full of promise for later.

Pete, who had headed for the electric cart he’d apparently
driven to the storage building, hurried after us with a map of the fairgrounds,
which he thrust in front of Sarkisian.
I could have cheerfully strangled the
man for joining us.

“Duty,” Sarkisian reminded me.

I muttered something extremely rude about duty that would
have shocked my Aunt Gerda.
Well maybe not.
My aunt has been keeping company
for the past year with Charlie Fallon, a retired chef, who has been known to
express his negative opinions just as freely as I’d just done.

Pete pointed to a building on the folded paper he held.
“Here’s
the auditorium,” he said unnecessarily since it was clearly marked.
“The main
entrance faces this way.” Also an unnecessary piece of information since
Sarkisian had just walked past it.
“But the stage door is on this side.” He
pointed again, first at the building as we rounded the corner and reached that
entrance, then at the map.

Sarkisian took it from him.
“Parking Lot B isn’t all that
far.”

Pete nodded.
“I can get a couple of guys out here to help
me.
We’ll get all the traffic diverted that way.
We won’t let people anywhere
near that storage building.”

“Better call for your reinforcements then,” Janowski said.
“The sign-ups are due to start in about half an hour.”

I winced.
My, doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun?

“Now,” Janowski consulted his itinerary again.
“Where should
we hold the tryouts for the parade?”

“Same lot?” Pete suggested.

I shook my head.
“No need.
There aren’t any ‘tryouts’ as
such.” I turned to Sarkisian simply because I preferred looking at him.
“Any
group that wants to take part in the parade merely sends a representative
bearing a photo of their group in costume and fills out a form.
Those who
haven’t already done it through the internet site can do it inside the
auditorium.”

“Photo?
Afraid of inappropriate costumes?” Pete asked,
looking hopeful.

“Now that might make things more interesting,” Brian
Quantrell said from just behind me.

Janowski directed a quelling glare at him.
”Being able to
see what the float or band or drill team or whatever looks like will help us
set up the marching order.
We don’t want too many similar ones clustered
together.”

“And who,” asked Sarkisian, eyeing me with ill-concealed
amusement, “gets to sort out the marching order?”

“Ms.
McKinley will be handling that,” Janowski announced.
“I
of course will go over it and change a few things if necessary.”

Great.
No matter how many hours I put into it he’d change
things around.
Then I’d undoubtedly have to redo it.
Probably several times.

“I’m accepting volunteers to help,” I said weakly.

Quantrell shook his head.
“I won’t have time.
I’ve requested
to be on duty throughout the event this year.
Starting…” He glanced at his
watch.
“In about another hour.
The sheriff’s department,” he added with a grin
at Sarkisian, “will be needing a bit of extra crowd control, I suspect.”

Theresa looked up from her steno pad where she’d been
writing furiously.
“You want to be on duty for the whole event?” Her eyes
widened and I could swear a look of awed admiration flickered across her face.
“How wonderful of you.
Such a sense of duty.
But you can’t, you know.
You’ll be
riding in the parade as the Grand Marshal.” Her tone capitalized the words.
“And the rest of the time you’re our Goodwill Ambassador.” More capitals.

Quantrell’s mouth tightened.
“I’ve told you before.
I’d
rather not be stuck in the parade.
I’m a paramedic.
I want to be doing my job.”

“Not want to be Grand Marshal?” Janowski stared at him,
outraged, another victim of capitalization.
“It’s such an honor.”

“You can’t let us down,” Theresa cooed at Quantrell.
“We’re
all counting on you.
And it’s all because you’re such a good paramedic.”

It was all because of good publicity but I kept my mouth
firmly closed.
I wasn’t about to do or say anything that might disrupt
proceedings as planned.
If Quantrell backed out—and honestly I couldn’t blame
him if he did—we’d have to come up with a new Grand Marshal.
And since
Quantrell’s name had already been announced in the newspapers and on the radio,
a last-minute change would produce a wealth of speculation and require a lot of
explanation.

So why did Quantrell want out?

Quantrell sighed and nodded.
“All right but I can still be
on duty while I’m being the Goodwill Ambassador.”

“Why do you want to be on duty?” Sarkisian asked, his tone
holding nothing more than mild interest.

That put me instantly on the alert.
I knew Sarkisian’s
subtle interrogation methods.
Did he consider Brian Quantrell a suspect in Lee
Wessex’s murder?
Why?

“You want an excuse to be on the inside track of the
investigation?” John Goulding demanded with far less finesse than Sarkisian.

Quantrell shrugged.
“I could just use the hours and holiday
pay.”

Sarkisian regarded him with that air of interest that always
drew more information out of his suspects.

Quantrell’s expression became a trifle sheepish.
“And yeah,
I guess I do want to know how the investigation is going.
I object to people
being murdered.
I deal with enough illnesses and accidents and even suicides.
I
don’t see why people should go around adding to all that by deliberately
killing each other.”

“Oh well said,” breathed Theresa.

Janowski shot her an irritated glance.
“Very commendable,”
he agreed dryly.

I shared Quantrell’s sentiments of course.
But the way he
said it sounded just a bit rehearsed.
Even though I might doubt a bit of his
sincerity I didn’t doubt his interest in the murder.
Why, I wondered, was he
taking it so personally?

“Sarkisian.” Becky Deschler hurried up behind us only to
slow as all of Lizzie’s dogs—at least all those Lizzie had brought with
her—raced toward the deputy yipping their little heads off either in excitement
or threat or more probably both.
Even Mazda hobbled after the others, his woofs
blending into the general cacophony.

“Can’t you keep those damn dogs quiet?” Janowski shouted at
Lizzie over the commotion.

“You’re not a dog person, are you?” She smiled sweetly at
him and scooped up Mazda with surprisingly little trouble.
I’d already
discovered how deceptively heavy the little beastie could be.
Lizzie must be
strong.

Sarkisian went to meet Becky and they held a low-voiced conversation.
I had no idea what information she delivered but it seemed to please the
sheriff.
Becky grinned at him and turned back the way she’d come.

For a long moment Sarkisian remained where he was, bouncing
slightly on his heels, then he returned to us.
His expression gave nothing
away.
“Shall we go on to the parking lot?” he suggested and kept walking.

I hurried to catch up.
“What was that all about?” I demanded
in a low voice.

“Ramirez sent her over.
He wanted to make sure I didn’t
forget to officially show up at the department.” He shook his head.

“And he didn’t have the nerve to remind you himself?” I was
going to get teasing mileage out of this.
If he ever brought up cat hairs again
I now had some ammunition with which to fight back.

We reached Lot B.
Pete Norton pointed out the route cars
would take from the livestock entrance to reach this alternate parking area and
Sarkisian gave his approval.
Janowski beamed at him and Pete placed the call
that would summon his assistants.
With Theresa delGaurdia following him on
Janowski’s orders, Pete took off for one of the other storage sheds to begin
unearthing the sawhorses and signs to direct the people who would begin
arriving all too soon.
At least I hoped they’d arrive.
What if I gave a
talent show and no talent showed up?
Possibilities like that always haunt
me on the brink of events.