Hot Dogs (7 page)

I explained the situation and Theresa took charge of the
disc.
“I suppose the committee can watch it if there’s a lull,” she said
dubiously.

“
If
you get in,” Vanderveer emphasized the word a
little more than necessary, “we’ll need you in full costume tomorrow with your
instruments so we can check lighting and sound.”

“Cool,” the apparent leader said.
“What time?”

“We’ll post it on the website by nine o’clock tonight,” I
assured her.
And by “we” I meant “me”.
I’d been in this business too long now—a
bit over a year and a half—to have any illusions left.
Unless I fobbed the job
off onto Faith and Paul.
That idea appealed.

The next act, four senior citizens doing a barbershop
quartet, presented themselves amid much good humor.
I accepted their paperwork
and tried to hand it to Theresa but Vanderveer commandeered her services to
take notes while he checked out the lighting and sound equipment.
That appeared
to be a very uneasy pairing, I noted, watching them as they made their way up
the steps to the lighting loft.

I caught Sarkisian’s hand for a brief moment then headed
into the lion’s den—I mean carried the application to the committee.

The barbershop quartet didn’t assail us with “Sweet
Adeline”.
They’d come up with an original—and absolutely hilarious—version of a
current popular song which, in my opinion, richly deserved the send-up.
They
were voted an immediate spot in the show—no way were we going to let them get
bumped—and I jotted down a note to myself to make sure they were put in a place
where they could save things if necessary.
They waited while Ed Vanderveer
tested a few lights then trooped off as happy as clams.

Sue Hinkel, as beautiful as always with her thick auburn
hair arranged in curls about her shoulders, walked in with Neil Cartwright, who
was now able to get around on his prosthetic with barely a limp.
He waved a
greeting, grinning, which just showed he still had a lot to learn about events
like this.
I welcomed them with relief.

“Faith told us about the body,” Neil said as he settled on
the folding chair we hastily set for him in the wings.

“We’ll expect updates whenever Sarkisian tells you
anything,” Sue added.

“Don’t hold your breath,” I warned.
I told Neil to collect
the registration forms as they arrived.
Sue offered to run them down to the
committee one at a time if Neil would use his deep voice to announce the names.
I left them arguing amicably about how they would perform their temporary jobs
and joined the others in the seats to make sure all ran smoothly there.

The next act—duly announced in Neil’s sonorous tones—was a
middle-aged woman who settled herself at the auditorium’s piano.
She could have
been a professional.
She launched into a hauntingly beautiful medley of Andrew
Lloyd Webber songs and like the barbershop quartet received an immediate pass
into the show.
Vanderveer signaled a thumbs-up and we let her leave.
I began to
have real hopes for this event.

Then came a group of six middle-aged men in baseball shirts
singing “You’ve Got to Have Heart” from
Damn Yankees
.
They didn’t have
heart and “damn” was muttered far too often among the committee members to bode
well for their chances.
Still I had to give them credit for trying.

The next two groups were both made up of high schoolers who
had formed their own bands.
Nothing obscene, nothing too loud.
I’d heard worse.
The panelists scored them, Ed Vanderveer tried to light them and they were
dismissed.

They were replaced by a little girl’s ballet class doing
something from Swan Lake.
Actually, aside from the little swans heading off in
the wrong direction at one point and bumping into each other at another and
someone from the sidelines quacking in a loud voice, it wasn’t bad.
The
panelists seemed to feel that children ought to be encouraged.
Fine by me.

Next came a karate class performing katas to music.
Some of
them were startlingly good.
Some, not surprisingly, filled out a back row.
Then
came a punk band followed by a rap group and a pair of break-dancers.
I hadn’t
realized that was still in fashion but hey, I don’t keep up on what’s current.
I snuck out during a magic act to check on Paul and Faith and see if the line
was slowing down any.
I needed to get started on the parade lineup.

As I neared the door, Brian Quantrell, now in his
paramedic’s uniform, emerged from the nether regions with one of the poodles
under his arm.
“Someone is going to break their neck tripping over these damn
dogs.
They’re all over the place.
Hey, Lizzie,” he shouted over the noise of
chairs being rearranged on the stage.
“Get over here and keep a better eye on
these beasts, will you?”

“I am watching them,” Lizzie shouted back.
Footsteps sounded
and she appeared in the wings.
“Roomba’s checking out the seats along with a
few of the others.
How did you get hold of Ogden?
He was curled up with Mazda.
At least he was a few minutes ago.”

“He was in one of the dressing rooms.
And the door was shut.”
He looked at her accusingly.

“Shut?” Lizzie squealed the word.
“That does it, this is
disgraceful.” She rounded—not unexpectedly—on me.
“Someone is trying to
sabotage my act by hiding my dogs.”

“Why would anyone need to do that?” Quantrell asked.

Fortunately his wording seemed to slip right past Lizzie.
She took Ogden from him and cradled him close.
“Were you frightened, you poor
dear?
If I find out who did it, I’ll kill—” She broke off.

“No one would hurt your dogs,” Quantrell said soothingly.
“Someone probably just looked in the dressing room for something and didn’t
realize the little guy had slipped inside as well.”

“What were you doing in there?” I asked then realized I
could have phrased it a bit more diplomatically.

“Thought I heard something, so I went in and fell over the
dog.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be on duty now?” I asked.
That could
have been why he was prowling around, checking to make sure people weren’t where
they shouldn’t be and getting themselves injured.

He had the grace to look a trifle sheepish.
“I was looking
for a quiet place to warm up,” he admitted.
“I play the guitar and, well, I’ve
been trying to get up my nerve to audition.
I mean, I know everyone.
They know
me.
Think how embarrassing it would be if they had to turn me down.”

Very true.
But there was something about his manner that
didn’t quite sit right.
Oh I didn’t doubt he was going to audition for the
show.
I was beginning to think that every single resident of Merit County was
going to turn out with an act.
But had Brian Quantrell really been looking for
a place to warm up?
I had the distinct feeling he was lying.
But Sarkisian has
more than once told me I’m too suspicious for my own good.

I’d been vaguely aware of someone singing a folksong but I
hadn’t been paying it much heed.
An anguished cry and a crash coming from the
stage, followed by a volley of high-pitched yapping, changed that.
I sprinted
toward the uproar barely steps ahead of Quantrell, Lizzie and Sue, with Neil
bringing up the rear.

A middle-aged woman, still clutching her guitar, lay on the
floorboards beside a fallen stool.
Two of Lizzie’s poodles were in full
challenge mode less than two feet from the woman’s shoulders, barking their little
heads off.

“Roosevelt.
Howard,” Lizzie shouted in a sharp voice that
brought only desultory results.
One of the doglets cowered back then slunk to
her side but both kept up a steady growling.
Lizzie hurried forward.
“I am so
sorry,” she cried as the woman clambered to her feet.

“They wouldn’t let me move to stand up,” she laughed.
Amazingly she wasn’t furious.
“No, I’m all right.” She waved Quantrell back.

“I’m a paramedic,” he assured her.

“And I’m a nurse,” came her response.
“And don’t get mad at
the poor little doggies, that dachshund startled me and I overbalanced the
stool.
The poodles must have thought I’d attacked them.”

I hoped the judges were giving this woman a pass straight
into the show.
Anyone this good-natured deserved to be rewarded.

“At least let me help you.
And I’ll need to fill out a
report.” Quantrell reached for her guitar.
The smile he directed at her as he
handed over the instrument could have melted ice—if there had been any around
on this warm July day.
He had certainly turned on the charm full blast.
Was he
trying to make sure she didn’t sue the county?

I followed them as they left the stage.
Quantrell insisted
on supporting the woman’s arm despite her assurances it wasn’t necessary.
As we
passed the stairs leading up to the lighting loft I almost ran into Edward
Vanderveer who had just descended.

“Up to his old games, I see.” Vanderveer nodded toward the
two figures who retreated toward the dressing room area.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Our hero Brian Quantrell,” Vanderveer said, “has a fondness
for wealthy older women, married or not.”

“Oh?” I wasn’t sure whether to be amused or worried.
These
men were going to have to work together during this event and I had to play lion
tamer for it all.
If they didn’t get along I’d rather know right off the bat
rather than find out at some critical moment.

“Don’t you remember what he was up to last year?
Oh that’s
right, you weren’t around.”

“No,” I agreed, trying to look interested rather than
apprehensive.
“What happened?”

“He was making a play for Connie Wessex, trying to get her
to leave Lee and marry him.”

I almost protested on the grounds she must be at least ten
years older than Brian Quantrell then had the good sense to keep my mouth shut.
Age difference was no barrier to love and shouldn’t interfere with a
relationship.
After all, I’m six years older than Sarkisian.
“If he really
cared for her—” I began.

He waved my words aside.
“He cared for her money and believe
me, she has a lot of it to care for.
And a very generous nature with everything
except that money, if you know what I mean.”

“She led him on?”

Vanderveer gave a short nod.
“In every possible way.
He must
have thought he’d be a shoo-in as husband number two.
Except she didn’t want to
leave Lee.”

“So you’re saying,” said Sarkisian’s calm voice from only a
few feet away, “that he had a real motive for killing Lee Wessex last year.”

Vanderveer jumped and spun to face the sheriff.
“I didn’t
say that.
Did I?” He suddenly looked thoughtful.

Too thoughtful?
Had he just carefully dropped that
information on Sarkisian?
He might have known perfectly well the sheriff was
right there.

And if so, why was he deliberately causing trouble for Brian
Quantrell?

Chapter Six

The near-disaster on the stage seemed to have blown over and
the frenetic chaos settled down to normal chaos.

Janowski shoved the stool to one side.
“Lizzie,” he yelled,
“keep your damn dogs quiet or get them out of here until it’s your turn to
audition.”

“Maybe she should go next, then she can leave and take those
mutts with her,” Vanderveer suggested.

“They aren’t mutts,” Lizzie cried, turning on him.

“Well they’re in the way.” And with that he remounted the
steps.

Lizzie sniffed.
“He thinks they’re just
dogs,
” she
complained to me.
“All of them do.
They have no idea the amount of training
I’ve put into them, the amount of time and care.”

“Was Lee Wessex like that?” Sarkisian asked.

Lizzie hugged Ogden.
The tap of toenails at our feet assured
us Roomba was busy at her role of vacuum cleaner.
“Wessex,” she said with care,
“was a real jerk.
Everyone knew that.
And just because he managed to get
himself killed doesn’t make him innocent of all those thefts.
Roomba.
Howard.
Roosevelt.
Come on.” Surrounded by her dogs she stalked back to the seats with
Mazda bringing up the rear.

“Lizzie’s only telling half the story there,” Janowki said
as he joined us.

There went my hopes of thirty seconds alone with Sarkisian.
I repressed a sigh and focused on him.

“Oh?” Sarkisian turned to regard him.

“It was Wessex who made that dachshund of hers lose its
leg,” Janowski confided in an under voice.

Sarkisian raised his eyebrows in that expression that always
convinces people it’s safe to talk to him and he’ll believe every word they
utter.

“During the setup for the fireworks last year he was racing
off in his usual ‘no-one-on-earth-matters-but-me’ style and ran over the little
dog.
Crushed its leg, I gather.
Lizzie confronted Lee, saying she had to take
it to the vet at once and he’d better pay the bill.
He just laughed at her and
told her it was her own fault for not keeping the damn animals under better
control.
And,” Janowski mused, “I don’t—I mean didn’t—agree with Wessex much
but that time he was in the right of it.
Those dogs are a menace.”

“What did she do then?” Sarkisian asked.

“What?
Oh, she went to the vet of course.” He didn’t seem
interested in that part of the story.

Neil, who had returned to duty, called the names of the next
auditionees and Janowski returned to the front.

I looked sideways at Sarkisian.
“Lizzie really loves those
dogs.”

He smiled, not fooled in the least.
“You think that gives
her a motive to kill him.”

“Well…” I considered.
“If she was distraught over her dog
and he told her it was her own fault and he wasn’t going to pay the undoubtedly
astronomical vet bill, she might have struck out at him.” I hesitated.
“How was
he killed?”

His deep rich chuckle broke forth.
It’s an incredibly
attractive sound—except when it’s aimed at me, which it is all too often.
“Autopsies first.”

“Well, if it turns out someone hit him over the head, you’ve
got a suspect who was good and furious with him.”

He shook his head.
“You’re slipping.” That twinkle in his
eye was always a dead giveaway that he was teasing me.

“All right, what am I overlooking?” I demanded, resigned.

“The money he stole belonged to Merit County First.
And who manages
Merit County First?”

I opened my mouth then closed it again.
“Lizzie.
Her dog and
her organization’s money.”

Sarkisian grinned.
“Well, have fun with that.” He kissed me
quickly and turned to leave.

“Hey wait a minute.” I caught his arm but there was more
frantic yipping from the dogs and Janowski’s voice rose to shout at Vanderveer
up in the lighting loft and everything seemed to go wild.
Again.
I threw
Sarkisian a fulminating glare but he just grinned at me, raised a hand in a
token wave and removed himself to the relative quiet of his murder
investigation.

I hadn’t started on the parade lineup yet.
I would as soon
as the current crisis blew over, I promised myself.
I started for Janowski to
see what needed sorting out only to halt as a commotion rose from the sign-up
tables.

I hurried over there to find Pete Norton wielding a broom,
shooing two of the poodles into a corner.
“Where’s Lizzie?” I asked.
I’d
thought she and her dogs were safely in the seats.

“Gone for their leashes.
Don’t know why the damn woman
didn’t have them all restrained to begin with.”

Another poodle, followed by the maimed Mazda putting on an
amazing turn of speed, raced around a corner, possibly engaged in a game of tag
and tripped a woman who had just passed the sign-ups.
She spun, did some fancy
footwork and stopped before us with arms spread.
“Ta-da,” she cried.

I couldn’t help but laugh at Debra Carlisle, tap-dancer
extraordinaire and recent member of the SCOURGE elite squad.
She’s also an
incredible potter and sells her beautiful creations in my aunt’s shop in Upper
River Gulch.

“I see it’s chaos as usual,” Debra added.

“You’re going to tap dance?” I asked.
If she did it would be
another highlight for the talent show.
Her energy is only surpassed by her
ability and sense of fun.

She grinned.
“My girls.”

Not her own, mind.
She and her husband both swear they
aren’t ready for kids.
But she’s begun giving ballet and tap dance lessons to
the children in Upper River Gulch as an outlet for her talent and rumor has
it—I haven’t braved watching a class myself—the kids aren’t half bad.

“Where are the little monsters?” I asked.

“Playground, under parental supervision,” she assured me.
“As soon as I get an audition time I’ll call for the little terrors.” She
brandished her cell phone.

Theresa scurried from the stage area.
“There you are, Pete.
Mr.
Vanderveer needs your help with the lighting for a minute.”

Pete sighed.
“What about these dogs?” I took the broom from
him and he shook his head.
“Brave.” He followed the relieved Theresa.

I looked at the broom then at the dogs then leaned the broom
against the wall.
“Doggie treats would be much more to the point,” I told an
amused Paul.

“Don’t you dare,” Lizzie protested.
She pushed past the still-crowded
entry and strode toward me.
“I don’t want their poor little tummies upset just
before a performance.” She had at least half a dozen leashes draped over her
arm but not a single doglet attached to any of them.

“Hey, where’s the next act?” Neil called.
“What’s the
holdup?”

Quantrell, clutching a twelve-string acoustic guitar by its
neck, emerged from behind a fold of curtain where he’d apparently been hiding
from the confusion.
He gave us a sickly grin before hurrying over and handing
his form to Neil.

“Nervous,” Lizzie pronounced.
She casts a sideways glance at
me.
“I suppose Janowski told you all about how it was Lee Wessex who hurt my
poor Mazda.”

“Reckless driving,” I said, not quite accurately.

She gave a vigorous nod.
“I should have known that slimeball
Ivan Janowski would try to throw some suspicion around.
Trying to divert it
from himself.”

“Oh?” I’m nowhere nearly as good as Sarkisian at getting
people to talk but luckily Lizzie intended to get in her own hints and
innuendos while the getting was good.

“Didn’t you know about their rivalry?” Lizzie lowered her
voice to a hushed whisper as if she were revealing some dark dangerous secret
rather than a bit of malicious gossip.

“What rivalry?” I asked in equally hushed tones.
Hey, I’d
play along.

“Typical Geek versus Jock, dating all the way back to high
school days, I gather.
For as long as I’ve known them.
Lee was always riding
Ivan about needing pocket protectors and glasses and making jokes about how the
only sports he could play were computer games.
And Ivan came back with Lee’s
brains being in his pants and how it was a good thing he married money because
he didn’t know the first thing about anything that happened off a sports
field.”

“They kept it up for…” I did some hasty mental math which is
never easy for me.
“Over twenty years?”

Lizzie nodded.
“For awhile it had just become habit with
them without any real malice.
But at the beginning of last summer it became
serious again.
Lee must have found out about the affair his wife was having with
Ivan.
You really should have seen them.
They were yelling at each other at last
year’s parade.
I think more people were watching them than the marchers.”

And that night someone had killed Lee Wessex.
Interesting.
Not conclusive of anything of course but interesting nonetheless.

Opening chords from the stage announced that Brian was
getting down to business.
Some intricate finger work followed and I realized he
played classical, not folk or rock and was surprisingly good.
The run of notes
though was punctuated by a renewed yapping.

The music broke off.
“Lizzie,” came his irate shout.
“How
the hell can I be expected to play over all the racket your damn dogs are
making?”

“Roosevelt,” Lizzie called but was completely ignored by the
doglets.
She sighed.
“Sorry, Brian.” She hurried out to the stage to begin the
roundup.
“Really,” she added as she began attaching leashes.
“You ought to be
flattered.
They were giving you their appreciation bark.
They liked your
music.”

“Hah.” A man who had sung earlier but had been hanging
around listening glared at her.
“It’s attempted sabotage.
She wants enough
people eliminated so her stupid dogs will get a spot.”

Lizzie spun around, bristling with anger but I hastily
intervened.
“Are you going to have the dogs sing this year?” I asked with
attempted joviality.

Lizzie transferred her glare to me.

“Neil, do you have her paper?” I asked.

He grinned, obviously enjoying the uproar.
At least someone
was.
Sue was too, judging by her expression.
The sympathetic wink she gave me
soothed my ruffling feathers as I knew she intended it to.
I can always count
on Sue in a crisis.

“Why don’t you go next, Lizzie?” Neil called, thereby saving
me the trouble of making the suggestion.
“Then you can take them home where
they can rest up for the big show.”

That mollified her.
Somewhat.
She went to collect her props.

As curious as I was to see Hot Dogs perform, I didn’t get
the chance.
Paul and Faith called me to answer questions from potential
marchers in the parade and before I’d finished with them Lizzie and her canine
troupe were jostling the people still in line, trying to make their way through
to the exit.
Those waiting obviously had no idea how much chaos the doglets had
created or they would have moved out of her way more quickly.

“Theresa,” I heard Ivan Janowski’s irritated shout from the
stage.
“Get down here, will you?”

If he were reclaiming his assistant that meant Edward
Vanderveer would be alone.
And not happy about it.
With a sigh I excused myself
to the paraders who wanted to tell me all about their previous experiences in
the Merit County Parade and made my way back to where the committee members
were growing restless.
Two acts waited their turn to audition but despite
Neil’s and Sue’s best efforts to keep the day’s schedule moving, everything had
come to a grinding halt.

“What’s up?” I asked as I emerged onto the stage.

Janowski glared at me.
“Why didn’t you arrange for catering
today?”

“You said it wasn’t in the budget.” Which was a shame.
Right
about now I could have used some of Charlie Fallon’s choicer offerings.
Charlie
had been another member of the yacht club where I’d met Paul and Faith Alvarez.
He too had moved to Upper River Gulch where he’d taken over our tiny town’s
café, making it so crowded he has to take reservations.
He’s also the caterer
of choice for the events I organize.
Besides, if he were here my Aunt Gerda
wouldn’t be far behind and I enjoy my aunt’s eccentric—and sympathetic—company.