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  “Let’s find out.” He started walking—in the direction of Vanderveer and Janowski.

  The two men ignored our arrival. They appeared completely caught up in whatever they were arguing about. We didn’t interrupt. It was amazing what one could learn by being the metaphorical fly on the wall.

  “I wouldn’t trust you not to lose them if they were hanging around your neck,” Janowski shouted at his opponent.

  Vanderveer’s face, which was already an angry shade of red, darkened to an alarming hue. “I’m not the one who loses things. I didn’t lose all the money from last year’s event.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? That money was never in my charge. And we’re talking about keys—if you can remember anything for more than two seconds.”

  “I’m talking,” Vanderveer corrected. “You’re shouting. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar?” He shot a suspicious look at Sarkisian, acknowledging our arrival for the first time. “The sheriff knows that.”

  Startled, Janowski turned and finally registered our presence. His color slowly faded as he took a deep breath. “He needs to turn the keys over to me.”

  Sarkisian raised his eyebrows. “He doesn’t have them. I do—in an evidence bag. But don’t worry. Someone from the Fairgrounds Committee is on their way over. They’ll bring another set of keys and make certain everything is unlocked for you.”

  Both Vanderveer and Janowski started protesting at once with the result that I only caught scattered phrases such as “there’s no need” and “it would be easier”. Why, I wondered, was it so important to them to have the keys? Did one of them want access to some locked area without anyone else knowing about it? And if so, was the other man suspicious—or did he merely want to feel important and in control?

  I glanced at Sarkisian but he merely stood there, a quietly concerned expression on his face, listening to the all but unintelligible babble.

  When it finally petered out he smiled at them. “I’m sure you’ll be able to come to arrangements with the Fairgrounds Committee member.”

  Vanderveer gave Janowski a superior smile. “I certainly will. I’m a member of the Fairgrounds Committee as well as the Fourth of July Committee.”

  Janowski glared at him. “Damned if I know how you managed to get accepted onto either one.”

  “Pure ability,” Vanderveer informed him then beat a hasty retreat before Janowski could come up with a suitable retort.

  Sarkisian stepped in quickly, preventing Janowski from chasing after him to continue the fight. “One of my deputies checked your arrival time last night with your wife,” he said.

  Janowski snorted. “I’ll bet she told you I was drunk when I got home, which is a damn lie. I wouldn’t have driven my car if that were the case.”

  “She didn’t mention anything about that,” Sarkisian said. “She did though have a slightly different account of what happened last year.”

  Janowski stiffened. “I have no idea what she might have said. Her memory—” He broke off with a slight shrug. “She confuses dates all the time.”

  “Her memory was excellent,” Sarkisian assured him. “Apparently she had reason to remember the fireworks show and the drive home afterward. It seems you had a fight over your flirting with Connie Wessex and you got out of the car and told her to go home without you. And you didn’t return until the next day.”

  Janowski flushed. “Did we do that on the Fourth? I guess it’s my memory that’s becoming faulty. That wasn’t the only time that sort of thing has happened. I’ve spent quite a few nights in a hotel. Believe me, it’s much more peaceful. And,” he added darkly, “I can usually get a much better dinner and breakfast.”

  “Flirting?” Vanderveer had apparently returned. “You only fought about flirting? Didn’t your wife realize you were having an affair with Connie?”

  Janowski fixed him with a withering look. “My ‘affairs’, in all senses of the word, are none of your business.” And with that he stalked off.

  Vanderveer smiled. “That,” he announced, “was extremely satisfying. Well, I had best have a talk with that comedy troupe. Really, we need the stage.”

  “There’s a chance we can let you have it in about another hour,” Sarkisian assured him.

  There was? I could have kissed him. Of course I wanted to do that anyway but hey, an extra excuse never hurts. He must have been about to tell me about it when we were interrupted earlier.

  Vanderveer let out a long breath. “I’m very glad to hear it. Is there any reason why I can’t go into the lighting loft right now then? If I could get started that would help to move things along for us.”

  “I’ll take you over there and get it cleared with the team. Annike?”

  I fell into step with them. Sarkisian’s pocket, I noticed, was empty. He must be in dire need of a brownie fix. I knew I could murder—damn, I’ve got to stop using that expression—a block of dark chocolate right about now. Somewhere in the bottom of my carryall purse I’d stashed a small bag of chocolate chips for emergencies. Unfortunately I seemed to have left my purse in Freya’s trunk when I’d collected my laptop. I was definitely not thinking clearly today. When I had a chance I’d have to pick it up—and transfer some of the chocolate ration to one of the pockets in my computer case. This was beginning to look like another long day.

  “Sarkisian.” John Goulding hurried down the path, not from the auditorium but from the storage shed where Wessex’s body had been…stored. The deputy looked excited and was putting on an unusual turn of speed.

  The sheriff paused but indicated to Vanderveer he should continue. As soon as the man was out of earshot he turned his attention to the deputy. “Got something?”

  John came abreast of us, breathing heavily. “Roberta’s almost got the last of those damn decorations out and you’ll never believe what she found.” He beamed in triumph.

  “If it’s another body…” I let the threat in my tone finish the sentence for me.

  John grinned at me. “Much, much better. A briefcase. Tucked into the wall of the shed through a broken sheet of drywall, far enough back so it was almost impossible to find. And it’s got initials on it.” He looked expectantly at Sarkisian.

  “L.W.?” Sarkisian hazarded.

  “Well, add an E for his middle name and yeah, that’s what we’ve got.”

  Sarkisian looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Mind telling Vanderveer I’ll be along in a few minutes to see about letting him into the auditorium?” His tone didn’t hold out much hope I’d agree.

  “No way. I’m not missing this. Lead the way, John.” But I started for the storage shed first.

  Roberta Dominguez stood just outside its entrance. Just as John had said, a hodgepodge of red, white and blue buntings and who-knew-what-else lay in untidy heaps toward the far side. The sight warmed my heart. But right now I was more interested in the briefcase that lay on the hood of her semi-official dirty-white car.

  “I’m dying to open it,” Roberta called as we neared.

  “Dusted for prints?” Sarkisian came to a halt at her side, eyeing the case with interest.

  Roberta nodded, her short dark hair bobbing around her rounded face. “Nothing. Wiped clean. The outside at least.”

  Sarkisian pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and donned them. He checked the locks and they clicked open with only a token resistance from a fine coating of rust, a byproduct of our damp coastal climate. He lifted the lid and we all peered over his shoulder.

  Money almost overflowed from the interior. Bills, checks, even loose change. All just stacked in haphazardly.

  “How much do you think there is?” Roberta breathed.

  Sarkisian rocked back on his heels. “I don’t know. How much was the take from last year’s Fourth of July?”

  Chapter Ten

  I resisted the almost overwhelming urge to scoop up the top few layers of bills and checks just to see if there really were more lying beneat
h. “You think this is the stolen money.” It wasn’t a question but a statement.

  Sarkisian nodded. “And it was hidden in the building,” he added, his tone musing.

  “So who hid it?” John asked, getting right to the heart of the issue. “Wessex or whoever killed him?”

  “It wouldn’t make sense for someone to kill him for it then just leave it here,” Roberta said. But she glanced at Sarkisian for his opinion.

  “Unless they didn’t kill him for the money?” I suggested.

  John shook his head. “Anyone who found that would consider it a windfall. I can’t imagine anyone just leaving it to rot.”

  “Whoever left the body must have known we’d also find the money when we started getting ready for the event this year,” I said.

  “It was really well hidden,” Roberta assured me. “And nowhere near where the body was lying. It wasn’t until I got out that last armload of stuff I spotted that hole. Or rather the board that had been covering it up. It was no wonder we didn’t find it before. We nearly didn’t at all.”

  “Yeah.” John picked up a bill with his gloved hand then set it down again. “If they’d wanted to be sure the money was found they’d have left it with him, not hidden it like that. And if they’d wanted to be sure it wasn’t found they’d have thrown it in the ocean or something. This just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Unless they didn’t want to risk getting caught with the briefcase,” I suggested.

  Sarkisian, I realized, wasn’t saying anything. He just stood there frowning at the briefcase and its contents, his mind obviously not on our conversation.

  “Should I dust the cash for prints?” Roberta sounded dubious.

  “Hmm?” Sarkisian emerged from his reverie. “Bag the whole thing and take it back to the department. We’ll need to count the money and check it against the total from last year.”

  John nodded. “Lizzie Mobley will sure be glad to see this stuff. And so will all the charities that were counting on it last year.”

  A lot of people were going to be glad to see this money. But would one person not be happy? And why hide the money like that? The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Wessex himself had to have hidden it. But when? Or possibly more importantly, why?

  Had Wessex not been killed on the night of the Fourth? Had he hidden the money then returned for it at a later time only to be killed before he could retrieve it? I opened my mouth to offer this idea only to close it again. It wasn’t reasonable. If Lee Wessex hadn’t been killed on the Fourth then it would have been almost impossible to bury his body so completely under all the decorations. Almost but not completely. It might have happened. But the more I thought about it the less likely that scenario seemed.

  “Sheriff.” Ivan Janowski stormed up the path from the arena toward us.

  “Put that thing out of sight,” Sarkisian told Roberta. “Good work, by the way.”

  She beamed at the praise only to frown the next moment. “We should have found it yesterday.”

  “That’s why crime scenes are roped off. Things occasionally slip past us. But you did find it and that’s what’s important.”

  Roberta nodded, patently grateful for not getting told off for careless clue hunting. That wasn’t Sakrisian’s style though. And his praise would probably go a long way further to making her more diligent in her work than if he had yelled at her. Besides, she hadn’t been the only investigator going over that shed. They’d all missed that broken bit of drywall.

  Roberta closed the briefcase and bagged it. She’d placed it on the floor of the backseat of her car and climbed behind the wheel before Janowski reached us. “I’ll call if we get anything useful from the inside,” she said and started the engine.

  “Find something?” Janowski demanded as he watched her pull away. Then his gaze shifted toward the piles of miscellaneous red, white and blue decorations and his eyes took on an avaricious gleam.

  “Just routine business,” Sarkisian said smoothly. “Let’s take a look at the auditorium.”

  He headed across the asphalt and up the path that led to the stage door with the rest of us hurrying after him.

  “How soon can we start hanging all that stuff up?” Janowski demanded. “We’ll need to get a crew of workmen over here.”

  “Outside, right away. Inside, well we’ll see.”

  Janowski dragged out his phone and in moments was barking orders at Theresa to make the necessary calls.

  As we neared the building I spotted a bevy of poodles racing down the path that led toward Parking Lot B. Lizzie was nowhere in sight and I was sure she wouldn’t want her little beastlies running around loose where cars would still be arriving. I hurried after them to see if I could round them up before they got hurt.

  The yipping started as soon as they neared the end of the paved walkway. I slowed to a stop. Lizzie was there in an animated discussion with an older man not much taller than herself. He was waving his arm in a big circle. Mazda sat on his foot and Roomba ran her vacuuming act in a small circle around him. The poodles leapt up at him in obvious delight as Lizzie tried ineffectively to hush them.

  Relieved they were safe I headed back to rejoin the others.

  Inside, the ghoul squad had roped off a large section of the backstage area with crime scene tape. I was surprised they hadn’t cordoned off the entire building. If Sarkisian decided to—and I wouldn’t blame him if he did—well, we had several options though none of them were good. There was the stadium despite the difficulties presented for lighting and sound—not to mention the workers putting the final touches on the fireworks display. And if we couldn’t make that work, we had the backup option of the high school auditorium. For that matter there was the mini-theatre at Stowridge College, the liberal arts school located outside Meritville. Both the schools though tended to use the fairgrounds since their facilities were so small.

  Thinking of the problems with the arena reminded me the truck bearing the fireworks and the work crew should be arriving soon to begin setup. It would be a relief to see it rolling through the gate. One less thing for me to worry about.

  “Annike?” Sarkisian recalled me to the present. “Want to keep everyone out of here for a few minutes?” He gestured for John to join him and went to consult with Salvador Ramirez.

  “Can’t he just give us a yes or no?” Janowski complained.

  “Would you rather we got a ‘no’ when we might be able to get a ‘yes’?”

  Lizzie looked in the door, the doglets clustering about her legs. “What’s the holdup? The talent is beyond restless. I think they’re going to rebel.”

  “You can bring them in,” Sarkisian announced.

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “It’s about time,” Janowski cried, drowning me out.

  I stared at Sarkisian but he avoided my gaze. For some reason he wanted us in there. The only explanation I could think of was he wanted his suspects—at least those who were involved in some way in the talent show—on the site of Pete’s murder. The reason escaped me unless he hoped to make the killer nervous. Despite his open and affable manner, Sarkisian has a deeply devious nature. I guess that’s one of the reasons I love him so much.

  I made some rapid calculations. “Mr. Janowski, why don’t you and Lizzie round everyone up and get them in here. I’ll…” Demand a few answers from Sarkisian? Snatch a few much needed seconds alone with him? Both? “I’ll help set up barriers to direct people where we want them,” I finished lamely.

  The crime scene tape, so beloved by Rodriguez and his crew, did a pretty good job of that. Lizzie and Janowski accepted what I said though and together made their way toward the stadium once more, accompanied by the dogs.

  I rounded on Sarkisian.

  “You’ve got questions,” he said, forestalling me.

  Oh what the hell. I grabbed him by the shoulder with my free hand and kissed him while I had the chance. “A few,” I agreed when I finally released him. Or rather,
when he released me. His response had been gratifyingly thorough. “I didn’t get a close look at poor Pete.” I could have of course but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to do it. “He was hit over the head?”

  Sarkisian nodded. “With a metal pipe. We’ve got it bagged and on its way back to the department.”

  “Lee Wessex was killed the same way, wasn’t he?”

  “Barring anything unexpected from the autopsies,” Sarkisian agreed.

  “Why?” I demanded. I didn’t need to explain I meant motive, not the similarity in the deaths.

  “At a guess,” he said slowly and his guesses tended to be accurate, “he must have known or realized something about Wessex’s murder. Or course there’s always the chance someone who really hated him took the opportunity to get rid of him and hoped we’d assume the two murders were related.”

  I ignored that last bit. It was possible but I could tell by the way he said it he didn’t really believe that. “You think he tried to blackmail Wessex’s killer?”

  “It’s amazing how stupid some people can be,” Sarkisian agreed. “Or he might have remembered something and asked the person to explain it.”

  “Everyone talked with him yesterday. Or rather they all seemed to be arguing.” I considered a moment then shook my head. “And to think I was hoping we could sneak off for dinner tonight.”

  “We’ll work something out,” he promised.

  And that was all the time we had. People began filing through the stage door, peering avidly at the roped off area. Sarkisian gave me an encouraging smile then went to join John Goulding, presumably to give him more instructions. With a sigh I donned my lion tamer persona and went back to work.

  “Hey Annike.” Janowski waved at me from the back of the crowd. “Vanderveer isn’t able to do his job without Theresa’s help. Will you get up there and tell him what to do?”

  I squelched an impulse to tell Janowski what to do. I headed toward where Edward Vanderveer stood at the base of the steps leading up to the lights.

  “Theresa has the notebook with all the comments I made,” he informed me in injured tones.