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  “Ms. delGuardia?”

  Theresa looked up. “Will we be able to use the auditorium, Sheriff?” she asked.

  “Have to wait and see. If you’ll help me with a few points it might move everything along more quickly.”

  Theresa gave him an uncertain smile and excused herself to Connie, who eyed the sheriff with considerable distrust. And well she should if she had anything to hide.

  Theresa followed Sarkisian a short distance. I stayed with them and she didn’t question my presence. Luckily.

  “I understand you were talking to Pete Norton last night while everyone was leaving.”

  “That’s right.” She nodded. “Mr. Janowski had left his briefcase inside. He called me right after he left and asked me to make sure I got it safe for him.”

  “So you went back inside? Did Mr. Norton go with you?”

  “Yes. We found it right where Mr. Janowski had been sitting. Then I came out and Mr. Norton went to make sure those dogs of Lizzie’s hadn’t caused any trouble. That-that’s the last time I saw him.”

  “So he was still inside when you left?”

  She nodded. “And since I know you’re going to ask, I went straight home and put on the news while I was getting ready for bed. I was so tired I don’t remember anything about it, I’m afraid.”

  “And who was still here when you left?” he asked.

  Theresa hesitated, frowning. “I never noticed. There were still a couple of cars here. Connie Wessex’s,” she suddenly added. “I remember it clearly. I wondered why she hadn’t gone yet.”

  “I had,” came Connie’s dry voice from just behind me. I turned to look at her. “I’d gone for a drink with Garth—the viola player in our quartet.” She lowered her false eyelashes. “Then Garth brought me back here so I could pick up my car and I went home.”

  “That’s right,” corroborated a tall thin elegant man approaching his late thirties but still at least a decade younger than Connie. “I waited for her in my car while she ran inside to check with Norton about flowers for the stage.”

  “Then you’d come back here before Ms. delGuardia left or after?”

  Connie hesitated. “I honestly don’t know. I thought several people were still here.”

  “And when did you get home?”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea. I stayed up for awhile going over the investment portfolios Garth and I had discussed. I must have fallen asleep because I woke up still sitting in my desk chair.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter though. I certainly didn’t have any reason to want the poor man dead.”

  “Unlike your husband?” Sarkisian asked. He let the motive for Pete’s murder slide. It seemed pretty obvious it was because he must have known something about Lee Wessex’s murder but I’ve learned not to jump to conclusions. It amazed me how Sarkisian could keep such an open mind though.

  Connie’s mouth dropped open and she stared at Sarkisian. “I didn’t want my husband dead.”

  “Probably not,” he agreed affably. “But some women might have been furious with their spouses for stealing their jewelry and all the money they could get their hands on and leaving.”

  Connie drew a shaky breath. “He could be a toad but he had his uses. And I didn’t know what he’d done until after he disappeared.” She turned away.

  “What did Pete Norton have to say about the flowers?” Sarkisian asked.

  She stopped and looked back. “He was quite rude. He said he wasn’t a florist and I could deal with the flowers myself if I wanted them.” And with that she strode off.

  I stared after her. That didn’t sound in the least bit like Pete. But then it was possible he’d put up with all he could take for one day.

  And he still had at least one more person who was going to confront him last night and that final meeting had cost him his life.

  Chapter Nine

  “Ms. Wessex,” Sarkisian called before she’d gone more than a few steps.

  She turned back. “What now, Sheriff?” She sounded irritated.

  “You said you went home and spent the evening going over your investment portfolio. Can anyone vouch for that? Just so I can eliminate you from my inquiries.”

  “Why should anyone need to vouch for me?” she demanded, her temper flaring. “Isn’t my word good enough? It ought to be. It always has been. I didn’t have any more to do with that groundskeeper’s murder than I did with Lee’s. And if you have nothing better to do than ask insulting questions of innocent people, I do.” She turned on her heel once more and stormed off.

  “Now,” Sarkisian mused, “I wonder what brought that on?”

  “She obviously didn’t want you pursuing the subject.” I’m great at pointing out the obvious. I think I’ve mentioned that before.

  “So what was she really doing last night?” Sarkisian raised his eyebrows.

  “Killing poor Pete?” I suggested. “Meeting a married lover? Dancing at a strip club?”

  That produced his low chuckle. “Maybe she’s a member of a secret criminal society,” he suggested, matching my facetiousness.

  My phone rang with typical bad timing. Just when I was enjoying a moment with my favorite sheriff. It didn’t play any of the rings indicating it was anyone I really wanted to talk to either but “C is for Cookie” from Sesame Street. That meant it was one of the “Foodies” as I’d dubbed them—the restaurants, caterers, organizations or individuals involved in what I had privately dubbed the “Food Fiasco” scheduled for tomorrow.

  Tomorrow.

  I shuddered at the thought. The day of any event, particularly one packed with four major projects and one minor one, was always stressful and exhausting. It made the prep work almost seem like a picnic. Except in this case a picnic was on the schedule.

  I tapped the earpiece I kept firmly in place so I’d have my hands free to take notes if necessary. “Annike McKinley.” I tried to sound smooth and professional at all times over the phone. It’s good for business.

  “This is Jerry Delacourt, Delacourt Catering,” came the annoyed voice. “We’re at the Exhibitors’ Gate with our van, like you said. But it’s locked and there’s no one around.”

  I nearly said, “Of course it’s locked, you idiot. Pete Norton is dead,” but I bit back that response.

  “Has this to do with the murder?” he went on, a note of ghoulish pleasure slipping into his tone. Apparently my input about the gate was of less importance than his curiosity about our grisly discovery of Lee Wessex’s body.

  “Afraid so.” No need to announce yet there’d been a second death. “Can you drive around to the livestock entrance? We’ll get someone to guide you to the picnic area from there.”

  “No problem,” he said and even over the phone I could hear the grinding of gears as he apparently put the van into reverse.

  I turned to find Sarkisian frowning at his notebook, pen in hand. “The food people are beginning to arrive and want to set up.”

  I didn’t blame them. Getting the trailers and vans and other cooking equipment into position and level could be a tiresome task. The sooner they got it out of the way, the sooner they could turn their attention to bringing in their supplies, setting up any displays and anything else they needed to do such as cooking. If they could be ready today then they could enjoy the parade tomorrow. Some of them would be hawking snacks along the marching route too. A very busy schedule all in all. I’d have to get Pete—

  I broke off that thought. I’d have to find someone to take over Pete’s innumerable tasks such as either unlocking that gate or putting up a sign to redirect the Foodies.

  “Annike,” came Janowski’s now familiar bellow.

  I caught Sarkisian’s eye and he strolled with me to see what minor upheaval the man was mentally turning into a full blown catastrophe.

  “Why did you change the order of the acts?” he demanded. He stood in front of the fence post where I’d thumbtacked the schedule.

  I mustered what patience I could. “I didn’t.
This is exactly—” I broke off as I saw where his finger jabbed at the first of the three sheets. Someone had made alterations in pen, circling names and drawing arrows to indicate new positions. Other names had been rewritten so a couple of them had become obscene or been changed into puns. I tried not to laugh at the funniest of them. I’d have to post a new copy, I supposed.

  “Someone’s just playing games with us,” I assured him. “I’ve got the original ready to go to the printing office.”

  “Let me see it,” he demanded.

  I led the way back to Freya. Leaving my laptop and briefcase in the trunk was a bad habit but this was the second time in as many days I’d been sidetracked upon arrival. Maybe I’d borrow a couple of pairs of handcuffs from Sarkisian and lock the damn cases to my wrists tomorrow morning.

  Once Janowski had the ready-for-print version safe in his hand he used his cell phone to call Theresa—who was already hurrying toward us. She waved at us and her boss hit the “end” button.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded as she drew within hearing distance.

  “I’ve been helping Deputy Goulding.” Her cheeks were flushed and I suspected she’d enjoyed the deputy’s company. He can be very friendly and informative, not demanding like Janowski.

  “Well he’ll need to bother someone else. Take these back to the office and get them printed for tomorrow.”

  She took them, still neatly in the folder I’d used to protect them and strode off toward the older white four-door she drove.

  Janowski shook his head. “Who the hell would have killed Pete Norton? This is making a real mess for us.”

  “Good question.” I didn’t mention it had also made a real mess for Pete Norton’s family—and of Pete Norton himself.

  I locked Freya and, burdened with my laptop and the event folders I’d thrust into its case’s pockets, turned toward the auditorium only to redirect my steps to the arena where I could hear the dulcet sounds of a rap band in full—though not profane, thank heavens—pounding rhythm.

  My phone rang, this time with Sue Hinkel’s choice of ringtones for me—“I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story. I answered with alacrity. She was one person with whom I always enjoyed talking.

  “A friendly voice,” I exclaimed into the headset.

  Sue’s cheerful laughter carried over the line. “Rough morning? Need some help?”

  I told her what had been waiting to greet us in the auditorium this morning and the resulting chaos.

  “My god, Annike. It’s getting to be a regular bloodbath out there. Okay, so some of the blood is a year old but you know what I mean. How’s Owen taking it?”

  “In stride.” My beloved sheriff took everything in stride—even me and my eccentric family and friends.

  “Want me to come over and make sympathetic noises at you?”

  Part of me—a quiet part inside—was screaming yes as loudly as it could. Sue’s cheerful company always made me feel better. “Don’t I wish you could. You’re too busy today.” Her one-woman salon would be cutting and coloring hair for a number of parade and talent show entrants. She’d be lucky if she got a break for lunch and escaped to go home before midnight.

  I heard her sigh over the phone. “Okay, I’ll just call whenever I get the chance.”

  I disconnected, heartened by the exchange. Dear Sue. She richly deserved all the happiness she was finding with Neil Cartwright.

  And right now I wouldn’t mind finding a little of my own with Sarkisian.

  When I reached the arena one of the comedy teams was going through their routine. It was obvious they weren’t taking this seriously as a rehearsal because they were adlibbing and deliberately giving each other the wrong cues. Fortunately they seemed to find it hilarious rather than upsetting. At least someone was having fun this morning.

  Connie stood to one side, watching with a frown. “This is pointless,” she said when she noted my arrival. “The only reason to have a rehearsal is to check the lighting and sound. You can’t do either out here.”

  “It’s really to keep everyone occupied so the—” I broke off before I called them the ghoul squad, “forensics team can get their job done. After that we should be able to go inside.”

  Connie shook her head. “This is all a waste of time. If that sheriff took a closer look at Theresa delGuardia he could wrap this whole thing up.”

  “Why?” Her comment surprised me.

  “She was in love with Lee. I thought that was pretty common knowledge. She tried to seduce him or some such rubbish and he told her to leave him alone.” She turned to look fully at me. “It was right before he died.”

  I blinked. I’d known about Theresa’s tendency to hero-worship people but would she really have tried to seduce her boss? “How do you know?” I demanded.

  Her jaw clenched but only for a moment. “Lee told me.”

  “Did you tell Owen? Sarkisian,” I corrected myself quickly.

  “Of course. But you just never know with that man whether he takes what you say seriously or not.”

  “Oh he does,” I assured her. “He listens to everything.” And frequently hears more than the actual words, though I thought it better not to mention that.

  Connie eyed me for a long moment then awarded me a tight smile and strode off to join the two violin players from her group.

  Across the chaos of the milling people, only a few of whom were paying any attention to the stage, I spotted Sarkisian. Any time was too long since I’d seen him last so I wended my way through the crowd and reached him at the same time he came to a stop beside Brian Quantrell.

  The sheriff gave me the sort of look that warned me to back off. I was great at ignoring those. I eased a trifle into the background but had no intention of removing myself from hearing distance. Sarkisian gave me another look and led the paramedic aside.

  Naturally I followed. After all, if I ever got a chance to curl up with Sarkisian for a late night chat I needed to be abreast of the current state of the investigation. He’d developed the habit of talking over his cases with me. It wasn’t often I was in on the whole thing so I could gain a fuller perspective. I intended to make the most of it.

  “We had a chat with some of the other paramedics,” he told Quantrell.

  Quantrell nodded. “Great bunch of guys.”

  “So my deputy told me. Unfortunately none of them remember you patrolling the fireworks clean-up after last year’s event.”

  Quantrell’s brow snapped down. “Of course I was there. One of the crew that came with the stuff got a slight burn on his arm. I’m the one who patched him up.”

  “And the rest of the time?”

  Quantrell gave an exaggerated sigh. “Look, we don’t work on the buddy system like cub scouts. We were all on our own. Damn it, if I’d known it was going to matter I’d have made sure plenty of people saw—and remembered—me. But no one told me there was going to be a murder and to make sure I had an airtight alibi.”

  Sarkisian grinned. “Those are usually the ones that make us the most suspicious.”

  Quantrell grinned back—albeit reluctantly. “I suppose some of them are real, such as performing on a stage in front of hundreds of people.”

  “That,” Sarkisian agreed, “isn’t as hard to fake as you might think.”

  Quantrell stared at the line of trees beyond the arena fence. “I guess you’re right. If no one saw the performer up close it might be a look-alike lip-syncing to a recording or whatever.”

  “Careful,” I said. “You’re betraying your devious mind.”

  That drew a chuckle—also reluctant—from him. “If I were all that devious I’d have found a way to be rich by now.”

  “What about last night?” Sarkisian asked. “You weren’t on duty. Any alibi for when Mr. Norton was killed?”

  Quantrell stared at him. “That depends on when it happened.”

  “We’re still determining the approximate time. Why don’t you just tell me when you left here and what you did?”


  Quantrell hesitated. “About six I think. All of you were still here, I know that. I went back to the office to fill out some paperwork so the dispatcher and several of the guys saw me there. But after that I went home, ate a frozen dinner and watched TV. Oh damn, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got to check on who’ll be opening the gates for the ambulance tomorrow.” He raised his hand in a half-wave to us and strode off.

  I cast Sarkisian a sideways glance. He was frowning after the paramedic’s retreating figure. “Doesn’t sound like anyone can prove where they were last night,” I said.

  Sarkisian’s expression softened as he looked at me. “I know where I would have liked to have been last night.” The warmth in his voice left me in no doubt about his meaning.

  “Me too. ‘A policeman’s lot—‘”

  “‘Is not a happy one’,” he finished for me. “I’ll try to get through things earlier tonight.”

  “Promises, promises.” I shook my head.

  “On the bright side—for you at least—the team’s done with the decorations. Roberta’s at the shed now giving it a final go-through.”

  I gave a short mirthless laugh. “Well I suppose we can hang things up outside at least.”

  “We’ll—” he began only to break off.

  Ivan Janowski’s voice rose above the general noise level and I turned to see who he was berating in the absence of the long-suffering Theresa. He was facing Edward Vanderveer.

  “Duty,” Sarkisian reminded me.

  With a sigh I went to mediate. We’d had far too much bloodshed already and those two looked ready to kill each other. Sarkisian started after me but his phone rang and he paused. So did I.

  “What’s up, Becky?” he asked then listened to whatever she had to say. His grim smile assured me it was something very relevant to the investigation. “Good job. Thanks. Heading anywhere next? Okay. I’ll see you back here later.” He disconnected.

  “Something good?” I asked.