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  That didn’t please Vanderveer. “Did you also hear that Quantrell accosted Lee afterward and started a fight with him?”

  Sarkisian turned his full attention on Vanderveer for the first time. “Fists or words?”

  “Words.” Vanderveer sounded regretful as if he’d like to be able to report a violent brawl.

  “Do you know what it was about?”

  “Connie of course. Quantrell really hasn’t got any brains where women are concerned.”

  “And how did it end?” the sheriff encouraged.

  “Lee told Quantrell to come by the office the next morning and they’d have a serious discussion about Connie, not a shouting match. And Quantrell agreed—or at least he seemed to.” He paused, waiting for Sarkisian’s response.

  Sarkisian is great at picking up his cues. Obediently he asked, “What do you mean, ‘seemed to’?”

  “Well, Quantrell never showed up at our office. And why didn’t he, that’s what I want to know. No one realized Lee had vanished until late that afternoon. So did Quantrell know Lee wouldn’t be there?” He rocked back on his heels looking smug.

  Sarkisian nodded slowly. “Now that’s a very helpful bit of information, Mr. Vanderveer. Thank you.”

  Vanderveer beamed at him. “Always glad to be of assistance.”

  “There’s one thing you aren’t being any assistance with,” said Janowski who strode up to us just in time to hear that last. “And that’s the lighting. Why aren’t you back up there? We’ve found that damn baton and the twirlers are ready for their light and sound check.”

  Vanderveer smiled. “There are some things, my dear Janowski, that are of even more importance than that.” He nodded to Sarkisian and headed back to his loft.

  Janowski glared after the man. “Has he been feeding you unfounded gossip?”

  “I always welcome input from everyone involved even remotely in a case,” Sarkisian said with extreme diplomacy.

  “Remotely.” Janowski snorted. “If anyone stood to gain from Lee Wessex’s death it was his partner. Damn oily man.”

  A scurry of claws on the floorboards announced the arrival of Roomba making her appointed rounds in search of anything not nailed down that would fit into her mouth. Mazda tagged along accompanied by an entourage of poodles. Lizzie brought up the rear.

  “There you are,” she said to Janowski. “They’re ready to begin again. Did you want to be there?”

  Janowski shot Sarkisian an odd look then turned to Lizzie. “Let’s go. The sooner we get this over with today the better.”

  I’d just started after them when my phone rang with its generic music. Whoever it was they weren’t officially connected to the event. Curious, I tapped my earpiece and gave my name.

  “Glad I finally tracked you down, Ms. McKinley,” said a cheerful young man’s voice. “I’m Gabe Rafferty, president of the local chapter of Pyromaniacs Anonymous.” That was the fun-loving group who, with the full knowledge and supervision of the fire department, staged huge bonfire events throughout the year.

  I could guess what he wanted. Only the reflection that the fireworks company had yet to put in an appearance kept me from listening to my shrieking instincts to hang up right now. I managed a polite, “How may I help you?”

  “I know this is late notice but we—our membership—think it would be a great idea for us to sponsor an amateur fireworks show as a prelude to the big one.” He actually sounded as if he thought he was presenting me with a marvelous suggestion.

  “What a…an intriguing idea,” I managed, squelching the image of a couple of dozen complete amateurs competing and the resultant burns, minor explosions and mini brush fires. “I’m afraid it’s too late to work it into the program for this year. And there wouldn’t be time for the people who’d love to participate to get anything together. But you should definitely contact the fire department and the county supervisors to get approval for next year.” Which I secretly hoped they wouldn’t get. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy setting off a few sparklers and other safe fireworks. But a lot of excited people trying to show off in a confined area all too frequently leads to serious accidents.

  “Next year?” He sounded disappointed.

  “It’s bound to be popular,” I assured him. It would be too if they could figure out how to keep people from setting fire to each other. “And thank you for calling.”

  “Right.” Determination entered his voice. “We’ll see you next year.”

  “You look grim,” Sarkisian told me when I’d disconnected, then added when I’d explained, “That might, with sufficient supervision, become a very popular addition to the…er…festivities.”

  “Too popular.”

  This time it was Sarkisian’s phone that rang. He answered and listened a moment. “I’m in the auditorium. I’ll meet you at the side door.”

  “Anything good?”

  “Becky is back from her round of errands,” he said. He strode toward the exit.

  I went with him. It was either that or go back out front and listen to Janowski complain. Easy choice.

  It was pleasant being outdoors in the sun, all the more so because I knew it was only a brief respite from the chaos inside. I drew a deep breath and held Sarkisian’s hand and enjoyed the moment.

  All too soon Becky Deschler hurried along the path, notebook in hand. She looked pleased, which meant she’d found something useful. She waved to us and came to a halt, grinning.

  “Something big?” Sarkisian asked.

  “Oh, I’ve got a lengthy report for you,” she assured him. “But I’ll just give you the highlight right now.” She consulted her notebook though I was sure she didn’t really need to. “I went to the emergency vet clinic where Ms. Mobley took Mazda after Wessex ran over him last year. The woman I talked to remembered both her and Mazda because of Hot Dogs.”

  Sarkisian nodded, his gaze narrowing. “So what’s wrong with Ms. Mobley’s alibi for that night?”

  Becky positively beamed. “She wasn’t just sitting in the waiting room, she was pacing all over the place muttering to herself. When the vet tech asked if there was anything she could do for her, she said Ms. Mobley practically exploded, vowing she was going to kill Wessex for being so callous. The tech said she tried to calm her down, saying accidents happen, especially in parking lots. But Ms. Mobley said it wasn’t the fact Wessex had hit Mazda, it was the fact he hadn’t cared, that he’d actually seemed to be glad he might possibly have killed the poor little dog. And then she stormed out and didn’t come back for a very long time—at least several hours.”

  Chapter Twelve

  We found Lizzie. It wasn’t hard even though she was no longer with Janowski. We just followed the excited yips and waited for Roomba to make her inevitable appearance, nose fixed to the floorboards and surrounded by a gaggle of frenetic poodles. Mazda followed in due course and Lizzie trailed in the rear, her arms loaded down with unattached leashes.

  “Just about to take them for a walk,” she told us cheerfully.

  “Having the leashes on them would be a good idea,” Sarkisian pointed out.

  She shrugged. “They’ll be all right.”

  “Mazda wasn’t last year.”

  “I’ll make sure they’re nowhere near speeding idiots.” Her gaze narrowed. “Or are you working around to asking me something?”

  Sarkisian beamed at her as if she’d said something particularly clever. “Very astute. In fact I was wondering what you were doing last year while poor little Mazda was having his emergency surgery.”

  She hesitated, her gaze sharp on his face. I could almost see the calculations taking place behind her suddenly impassive expression. At last she shrugged. “I came back here. I’d left the other dogs with-with a friend and I wanted to make sure they were all safe. Once I got here and collected them I just walked around, trying to calm down.”

  “And that friend would be?”

  Again she hesitated. “My uncle,” she said at last. “He likes dogs but can’t
have any at his apartment so he visits mine whenever he can.” At Sarkisian’s request she provided her uncle’s name, address and phone number.

  “Thank you,” Sarkisian said. “It’s always nice to get these little details cleared up.”

  “Yes.” For a long moment she looked uncertain then she called the wandering dogs to her and began attaching leashes at random. She cast one last glance at us before hurrying her troupe out the door and pulling it closed behind her.

  I glanced at Sarkisian. “Think that’s true? Or do you think she came back here and carried out the threat she’d been making?”

  “Now that,” he said with fake solemnity, “is the sixty-four thousand dollar question.”

  “I thought all game shows had gone to a million dollars now,” I said.

  He shook his head. “I’m stuck in the distant past I guess.”

  I switched gears back to Lizzie. “Hitting someone over the head several times sounds a lot like rage to me.”

  “Speaking from personal experience?”

  I considered. “I think I’d go for the throat though I’d probably do it all wrong.”

  He chuckled, the sound deep and rich and amazingly good to hear in the midst of all this trouble and chaos. “If we ever have a strangulation case I’ll keep you in mind.”

  “I’ve got a sure-fire way for you to keep me in mind.” I slid my arms around his waist.

  “Annike—” He broke off and shook his head.

  “You’re not going to get away with putting off our wedding.”

  “I know how you’re looking forward to planning it,” he said, hitting below the belt.

  I flinched. “We’ll elope.”

  “Just us, the department and all of Upper River Gulch?”

  I sighed. I hated it when he had a strong argument. “You haven’t heard the end of this, Owen,” I warned him. I wasn’t one to give up easily. Stubborn, that’s me.

  I could see the glimmer of a rejoinder twinkling in his eye but before he could deliver it his phone rang.

  “Saved by the bell,” he muttered at me and barked his name into the speaker. Whatever the person on the other end was saying, it seemed to cheer him up. “Good work, Rodriguez,” he said at last. “How’s Roberta coming with the briefcase? That soon? Good. I’ll be waiting for your call.” He disconnected.

  He turned to me. “Quantrell’s fingerprints are on parts of the golf club used to kill Wessex. And Roberta found prints on the interior of the briefcase. She should have matches if they’re available fairly soon.”

  The side door opened but it wasn’t Lizzie returning with her doglets. A paramedic I didn’t recognize looked in, surveying the controlled chaos of the backstage area. He focused on Sarkisian and me. “Has Brian Quantrell done his act yet?”

  “Need him?” Sarkisian asked.

  “I was just hoping to hear him play.” The man edged into the room.

  “He won’t,” I said. “Only a few bars. He’ll be sitting in one place,” I explained as I saw the disappointment on the man’s face. “We only need him on long enough to check the lights and sound. It’s the ones where there are several people all moving around who have to do their entire routines.”

  “Damn. Brian’s really good, isn’t he?” The paramedic craned his neck, trying to see the magician who currently occupied the stage.

  “Why not come to the performance tomorrow? Then you can see everyone.” Never miss a chance to sell a ticket, I reminded myself. “It’s for a good cause, you know. Every penny goes to charity.”

  He wasn’t listening to me anymore though. I looked over my shoulder to see what had caught his attention and saw Quantrell, his guitar clutched in his hands, wending his way toward us.

  “I came to hear you but they say you won’t be playing,” his friend said.

  “Nah, not much today.” Quantrell kept going, heading for the door.

  His friend turned to follow him. “Rumor has it that guy Wessex was killed with a golf club. Wouldn’t it be a hoot if it turned out to be the one you lost right around then?”

  Quantrell looked back, his face flushed. “I don’t think—” He caught Sarkisian’s knowing eye and broke off. “‘A hoot’ isn’t the term I’d use. It’s all too likely.” His shoulders slumped. “My ambulance was parked near that storage building and I’d been out there practicing a few swings.”

  For one moment I wondered if he were about to confess to using Wessex’s head as the practice golf ball.

  “For how long?” Sarkisian asked.

  “Not sure.” Quantrell shrugged. “I got a call to check on someone and I set the club down but I honestly can’t remember where. Things got busy after that and I forgot all about it. I didn’t even realize it was missing until my next day off.” He glanced up at Sarkisian. “For all I know it could have been my club that was used to kill him. I hadn’t made the connection before.”

  And he didn’t sound too pleased to have made it now.

  The distinctive refrain from “Light My Fire” sounded from my pocket as the two paramedics left the building together and I tapped the earpiece to find out what the fireworks company wanted. I glanced at the clock and saw it was time for them to arrive. My heart lifted. Something was going right.

  “The truck broke down,” the man on the other end of the phone told me.

  Okay, maybe not all that right.

  “Where are you? And how long before you’ll be here?”

  I heard him suck in his breath. “Now that’s hard to say.”

  “You don’t know where you are?” I demanded.

  “Oh, I know that all right. We’re about fifteen miles from the warehouse. Thing is, we can’t get another truck to take your load.”

  “And you’re only telling me this now?” I kept my voice calm with an effort. “You must have been sitting there for hours.”

  “Well, we’ve got a crew trying to work on it. Thing is, they can’t seem to figure out what’s wrong. What?” This last was obviously not said to me. “Ah hell.”

  That didn’t sound good. “What is it?”

  “Broken part. They’re going to have to get a replacement.”

  “So it should be ready to roll in about an hour?” I asked, ever the optimist.

  “Depends on whether or not they can get what they need.”

  “Call me in an hour,” I ordered. “Just to give me an update.”

  He agreed though I doubted he would. I’d have to call him.

  I didn’t like the idea of the truck being late and the crew having to do a rush job on the setup. That they might not make it at all I refused to consider. Of course there was always Pyromaniacs Anonymous. They’d be happy to stage something even at the last minute. I tried to put it out of my mind for the moment and went to the edge of the stage to watch a gymnastics class perform tumbling routines. Tricky lighting but Vanderveer seemed to be coping pretty well.

  At least until the lights went out.

  The darkness was abrupt and almost complete, turning our chaos into an absolute madhouse. The kids on the stage yelled in protest and their coach was shouting for them all to stay exactly where they were. I went to the side door and threw it open to let in some daylight.

  “What’s going on?” shouted Janowski.

  “Looks like the lights went out,” a male voice yelled with heavy sarcasm.

  Janowski ignored the guy. “Vanderveer? Are you responsible?”

  “Anyone hurt?” Quantrell and his fellow paramedic, who apparently hadn’t gone far, raced back into the building and pushed forward. “All you kids okay?”

  “Someone fell,” the coach called back. “Ron? You all right?”

  “Landed on my arm,” a boy of about ten replied. He was holding his elbow and rubbing it.

  “Let’s see.” Quantrell knelt beside him and tried to examine the arm.

  The boy pulled free. “I’m fine.” He glared at Quantrell. “I’m going to do my routine.”

  The coach joined them but I turn
ed away. A flashlight was shining around in the loft. A moment later Vanderveer descended the stairs.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “We must have blown a fuse,” he said. “This place needs a lot of renovation. Everything about it is old.”

  Sarkisian appeared at my side. “Where’s the switch box?”

  “We need Pete Norton to show us,” Vanderveer said. “He’s always handled these things before. Can’t we get someone from the Fairgrounds Committee to send us a replacement for him?”

  The three of us set off on the search with Vanderveer and his flashlight leading the way. Sarkisian, I noticed, had his in hand, just not switched on. Since he always had an extremely good reason for everything he did, I kept my mouth shut.

  Vanderveer, with us trailing in his wake, opened the doors of each of the dressing rooms and storage closets and shone his light around. Finally we reached the door to the basement. Sarkisian switched on his own flash at last and by the two beams we cautiously made our way down the old uneven wooden steps.

  A careful search of the room finally revealed the switch box in the right front corner. Vanderveer directed his light into the ancient contraption and did something I couldn’t see. Apparently it worked because a cheer rose from above us even though nothing changed down here.

  “Was it an overloaded breaker?” I asked as we made our way out of the basement.

  Vanderveer snorted. “Sabotage. Probably the same jokester who switched the color of the lights.”

  “No real harm, just an annoyance,” Sarkisian mused.

  But why annoyances, I wondered? Was someone trying to distract us from the murders? Or from some vital clue concerning the murders? If so, they were succeeding.

  Or were they? After this latest trick we were going to be a damn sight more vigilant than ever.

  As if to confirm that thought I spotted Theresa prowling around, peering into corners, jotting down notes in her little book. What exactly she was doing I had no idea. But it was undoubtedly on Janowski’s orders. Janowski himself was pacing the area, staring at everything and everybody as if he were seeking some sign of impending sabotage.

  Just as we all returned to our places my phone rang with “Before the Parade Passes By” from Hello, Dolly. That was the ring I’d assigned to everyone having to do with the Parade. In all honesty I was surprised I hadn’t heard from any of that lot earlier.