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“Does make decorating a bit difficult, doesn’t it?” Quantrell agreed though he didn’t sound overly concerned.

  “I mean,” Janowski informed him, “so the big celebration wouldn’t be tainted by tragedy.”

  Janowski had been the one who had convinced the County Board of Supervisors to hire me. I suppose I couldn’t blame him for being worried that if the event didn’t come off he’d be in the doghouse for convincing everyone to spend money on me. Not that they’d pay me more than the cancellation fee of course. But still, in our county every dollar counts. I’d forgo the fee completely except every dollar counted in my meager bank account too.

  He focused on me. “Can’t you use your influence with the sheriff’s department?” he demanded.

  I blinked. “How?”

  He shrugged. “Get them to keep all this quiet? Make sure we can hold all our events?”

  He wanted me to make the attendant unpleasantness of murder go away. Much as I might want to, that was well beyond my powers.

  But never, ever, let a client believe you can’t do the impossible. Rule Number One for any business venture like mine.

  I fixed a smile on my face. “Sarkisian is reasonable,” I assured him. “There’s nothing to stop the parade, the fireworks should be able to go on as planned, the picnic area is far enough away from here not to be affected,” and since the picnic and its attendant contests were my idea this was important to me, “and if we use a different parking lot for the auditorium I don’t see why we can’t hold the talent show as planned.”

  “But what about the signups and tryouts?” Janowski demanded. “That’s what we’re here for today, remember? The show is only two days away.” His voice rose on a note of panic. “And if we don’t collect all the last-minute registration forms for the parade, how can we get it organized? There’ll be bands and drill teams and equestrian units and floats and…” His voice trailed off as more categories apparently escaped him.

  Poor guy, he wouldn’t last long as a supervisor if he let something as minor as a complete oversetting of all his plans distress him. That was just par for the course.

  Janowski looked around. “Theresa? Damn it, where is she? Theresa?”

  A middle-aged woman in a business suit, her black hair slicked back in a bun at the nape of her neck, straightened from where she leaned against an SUV. “Yes Mr. Janowski?”

  “Where’s the itinerary?” he snapped. “And for god’s sake get off my car. You might scratch it.”

  The woman jumped, her expression dismayed. She almost ran the few steps to present a red, white and blue notebook to him with all the air of a suppliant making an offering she wasn’t certain would be acceptable. “I’m sorry, Mr. Janowski.” Her worshipful gaze lifted to his face then lowered again.

  Suppliant might be exactly the right word, I realized. Though why anyone would worship that colossal ass Janowski was beyond me.

  He snatched the notebook, leaving her in possession of the steno pad and pen she also held and waved her away. She retreated once more to the SUV, started to lean against it again only to spring erect.

  He flipped through several pages, paused to scan one then flipped to another. “Quantrell,” he muttered and looked up to glare at the paramedic. “You know what you’re supposed to be doing?”

  “Standing around looking picturesque?” Quantrell asked.

  Even though he joked he didn’t look happy. I remembered his reluctance to become involved in the parade and wondered about it again. Most people would be thrilled to get a whole day in the limelight.

  “Don’t be more of a damn idiot than you can help,” Janowski snapped. “You’re our Goodwill Ambassador to the community. Think you can remember that?”

  Quantrell looked uncomfortable at the idea. “Yeah. I have to walk around garnering publicity and convincing everyone that every penny they spend goes to local charities.”

  Janowski regarded him suspiciously for a long moment then nodded. “Right.”

  “But I won’t go out of my way to hush up poor Wessex’s murder. If someone asks me about it, I’ll tell them the truth.”

  “Damn it, quit being such a Boy Scout,” Janowski snapped, thereby proving how little he knew of some of the more ingenious and disreputable members of that normally honorable institution. The boys Quantrell had saved, as I remembered, had been Scouts, though their leader had shared more than a few choice anecdotes with the sheriff’s department about that pair’s unauthorized behavior on other occasions.

  “Why don’t we dedicate this year’s celebrations to him?” asked Pete Norton, who watched Quantrell and Janowski as if they were the best entertainment around.

  Ivan Janowski glared at him. “In case you’ve forgotten, Lee Wessex made off with all the funds from last year’s event.”

  I frowned. “But he didn’t. He was killed.”

  Quantrell stared at me. “That’s right. He probably tried to stop the real thief and got murdered for his efforts. Which in my book makes him a hero.”

  “And what about the rest of the money he stole?” Janowski demanded.

  Another car pulled through the gate and rumbled toward us, the old gray two-door that was Sarkisian’s personal car and which he drove when not on official department business. I took a step toward where he parked next to Freya then forced myself to remain where I stood. This was not the time or place for a proper greeting. As much as I wanted to throw myself into his arms and tell him he was going to marry me at once and no more objections on his part, I couldn’t. Not in front of so many people. Besides, even before he could climb out, every member of his department who was present crowded around him, all talking at once. For a long moment he met my gaze over other people’s heads—pretty easy considering he’s six foot two and I’m six foot one.

  “Thank god you’re back,” John Goulding exclaimed, his voice carrying to where I stood as he claimed Sarkisian’s attention. “Now you’re here you can take over this investigation.”

  “Amen to that,” muttered Janowski. “At least someone reasonable will be in charge.” He glanced toward Theresa delGuardia who remained erect beside his precious SUV. “Damn nuisance but I suppose he’ll need her for questioning.”

  “He will?” That surprised me.

  “You didn’t know?” Janowski looked honestly surprised. “She was Wessex’s administrative assistant. She didn’t start working for me until after he disappeared. If anyone has a clue what he might have been up to, it would be Theresa. Oh damn,” he added. “He’ll also need to notify Wessex’s wife, Connie.”

  Quantrell cast Janowski a sideways look. “Don’t you want to be the one to tell her she’s now a widow? Though you might have to remind her to at least appear to grieve.”

  Janowski flushed. “That’s a job for the sheriff.” And with that he strode away from the crowd.

  I looked at Quantrell and raised my eyebrows.

  The paramedic’s eyes gleamed. “He was having an affair with Connie Wessex at the time her husband disappeared,” he explained.

  “Even so,” I protested, “she’s bound to be at least a little distressed.”

  He gave a short laugh. “Relieved, more likely. Now she’ll be able to collect his life insurance money. Not that she needs it.”

  A red sports car—more than forty years newer than my Mustang—pulled through the gates and slowed as the driver apparently took in the size and composition of the crowd.

  “And speak of the devil,” Quantrell said. “Here she is, incarnate.”

  Chapter Two

  The sports car inched forward then abruptly sped up and swept into a parking space not far from mine. A gorgeous creature dressed in a striking tight red skirt and white lace blouse climbed out, ran fingers through her fluffy platinum blonde hair and looked around uncertainly. Despite Brian Quantrell’s comment I couldn’t see any signs of horns, tails or cloven hooves. That didn’t mean they weren’t there metaphorically, of course.

  She strolled forward on her stiletto heels.
After a moment Quantrell detached himself from my side and strolled to meet her. I tagged along.

  “What’s going on?” Connie Wessex demanded by way of greeting.

  “Have you met Sheriff Sarkisian?” Quantrell asked her.

  “Brian,” she began.

  Interesting. The hero paramedic was on a first name basis with the woman he called the “devil incarnate”? I hoped I’d learn the story behind that but knew better than to count on it. At least on getting the true version.

  Already Quantrell had turned from her. “Hey, Sarkisian.” He waved both hands over his head as if his shout wouldn’t have been enough.

  He hadn’t actually needed either. Sarkisian already strode toward us, his expression the proper mixture of somberness and sympathy. I’d seen him wear it before when he’d had to break the news of a death to a new widow. He caught my eye and I sighed. No getting out of it, I’d have to stand by with a comforting shoulder if necessary. This was one of my least favorite activities but Sarkisian preferred my company for this task to that of Becky, one of his deputies, or Jennifer, the sheriff department’s day shift dispatcher.

  “Ms. Wessex?” he asked though it was obvious someone had already identified her for him.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded again.

  John Goulding claimed Quantrell, leaving Sarkisian and me to deal with Connie Wessex. The sheriff looked her over and I could see him mentally sizing her up with whatever he’d already been told about her and her marriage. He was good at that. Luckily. He almost always took the right tack with people.

  “I’m afraid the body of your husband has been found.”

  “The—” She broke off and looked around as if she expected to see him lying in the middle of the parking lot. An odd light flickered in her eyes only to vanish behind her lowering lids. “Did you find my jewelry?”

  Interesting response. Not “what happened?” or “how did he die?” or even “how long has he been dead?”. No. She went straight for what must be to her the essential point. Did that mean she already knew the answers to those other questions?

  Sarkisian waited with his brows raised, his features set in that understanding smile that lured people into talking too much.

  Color flooded her cheeks. “Finally,” she said. “Now he can be cleared of being labeled a thief. But this—” She broke off, shaking her head. “I think I’ve known all along he had to be dead. I’m just glad he’s finally been found.”

  “What made you think he was dead?” Sarkisian pursued, his tone one of sympathetic curiosity.

  “Well, he’d never have stolen anything if he hadn’t been forced to do it. And he never would have stayed away if he’d been able to come back to me. So whoever coerced him into stealing had to have killed him. Ivan,” she called, turning away from Sarkisian.

  “You’ve been dismissed,” I murmured.

  “Wish that meant I could have a few minutes alone with you,” he murmured back.

  I sighed. “No such luck.”

  Ivan Janowski strode over and took Connie’s outstretched hands with an almost believable expression of sympathy on his face. “I’m so sorry, Connie.”

  She pulled free. “This only confirmed my fears. Now,” and she got down to business, “I want to be included in every part of this year’s activities, Ivan.”

  Janowski’s brow snapped down. “But—”

  “I want to lend a hand with everything,” she repeated. “As a tribute to my late husband. He would have wanted me to help out this year in his place. I know he would. And,” she turned back to Sarkisian, “you must keep me informed on the progress of the investigation.”

  Sarkisian’s eyebrows rose slightly.

  She flushed. “You must see this has everything to do with me. I want my husband’s name cleared as soon as possible. And I want to make sure everyone involved in last year’s event—and this year’s, for that matter—knows he was innocent.”

  Sarkisian gave her that smile that so often convinced people—falsely—that he agreed with them completely. “What brought you out here this morning?”

  She blinked large, innocent eyes at him. “Why the sign-ups for the talent show of course. They are taking place this morning, aren’t they?”

  “We’ll be starting as soon as everything settles down a bit,” I said and could only hope I was right.

  She gave me a cool stare and a short nod, acknowledging my presence for the first time. “You’d be that event coordinator I suppose. The other members of my string quartet would be devastated if we missed this opportunity to present our newest piece.”

  I’d heard about her exclusive—and highly snobbish—musical group. What I hadn’t known was that they’d condescend to play at anything less distinguished than a formal concert. So was that really why she was here? Or had she known the body of her husband lay in that storage shed and would be discovered as soon as the committee got to work today? The sign-ups gave her an excellent excuse to be present when he was found.

  Of course it gave the same excuse to anyone else too. Everyone in the whole damn county knew that today was the day we were beginning the set-up and would be digging around in the storage shed. It had been announced in the papers and on the radio and even the local TV stations to sign up for things starting at nine this morning.

  “Annike,” Brian Quantrell called. “Come over here for a minute?” He still stood with John Goulding but now Theresa delGuardia and Pete Norton had joined them.

  “Duty calls,” Sarkisian told me with an almost straight face.

  “‘Duty is before all’,” I shot back, not one to miss such an obvious chance to quote Gilbert and Sullivan at him. “‘At any price I will do my duty’.”

  “‘Bravely spoken’,” he assured me, proving I wasn’t the only one who could remember that group of lines.

  “Tell him,” Quantrell jerked his head toward John Goulding, “we are not going to cancel the talent show.”

  “I never said—” John began.

  “The decision isn’t up to Ms. McKinley,” Theresa delGuardia declared.

  “The decision,” said Pete, “is up to the gods. Or at least the sheriff.” He folded his arms, his stern expression belied by the twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

  Quantrell grinned. “They aren’t one and the same.”

  Theresa raised her voice. “The decision will be made by Mr. Janowski. He’s the committee chairman, after all.”

  John glared at her. “He’s not chairman of the murder investigation.”

  “There’s no point in arguing about it,” I said quickly. “If we can’t hold the show here we’ll use the high school gym.” I made sure I sounded more confident than I felt. The school board would probably let us use the building—provided the county came up with a hefty insurance fee and bestowed a generous gift, such as new band uniforms or computer equipment. It was amazing what a bribe like that could do in these days of educational budget cuts.

  John brightened. “That would solve a lot of problems.”

  For him, maybe. I considered the logistics of alerting everyone in the county about a change in venues and wished I’d never opened my mouth.

  Theresa’s chin rose. “It will be best if we hold it here.”

  “If we do…” John’s words trailed off and he frowned as he surveyed the parking lot and the impressive front doors of the auditorium that faced us. He shook his head. “We can’t have people using this lot. For today at least.”

  Quantrell followed the direction of his gaze. “Why not just cordon off this whole parking area with your crime scene tape? Pete and his crew could set up posts and ropes to guide people around a different way.”

  Pete shook his head. “This is the service entrance where all the trucks and trailers will need to come through for the picnic and fireworks show. That talent show isn’t the only thing that’s happening. Or not happening,” he added with all the air of one throwing a pigeon into a roomful of cats.

  Everyone started t
o speak at once so I raised my voice. “Let’s deal with one thing at a time. The auditorium isn’t part of the crime scene, is it?” I caught John’s eye. “So we’ll just guide people somewhere other than the front doors. Why don’t we look around to see if there’s another entrance that’s suitable? For today at least,” I added, mimicking John Goulding.

  This surprisingly met with everyone’s approval. I shooed them ahead of me as if they were a bunch of clucking chickens—which at the moment they honestly resembled.

  We were just rounding the side of the building headed toward the stage door when Sarkisian caught up. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me close. I heard the others continuing without me and for a blissful moment allowed my cheek to rest against the sheriff’s shoulder.

  “It’s another madhouse for you, isn’t it?” he said against the side of my head.

  “And for you.”

  He grinned. “We’ve got to stop meeting this way.”

  “Fine by me. I’ve got a much better idea—when we can get a few minutes away from everyone.”

  “Sarkisian,” Janowski shouted.

  The sheriff sighed. “I’ll look forward to it.” He dropped a quick kiss on my forehead and returned to where Janowski stood with Connie Wessex.

  Even before I caught up with the others the dulcet tones of Pete and Quantrell arguing drifted out to greet me. Bracing my resolve, I mounted the steps—mental note to self, this entrance wasn’t wheelchair assessable—and strode in to discover what the latest bone of contention was.

  Quantrell looked up at me, his expression exasperated. “Since you seem to be in charge—”

  “It’s Mr. Janowski who is in charge,” Theresa interrupted.

  “Mr. Janowski is busy right now,” I said quickly. And I could only hope he wasn’t trying Sarkisian’s patience too badly. “How can I help?” Rule Number Two in my business is always appear willing—no matter how much you want to beat the clients’ heads together.

  “Explain to Norton here that we’ve got to establish a clear route for the ambulances and emergency vehicles,” Quantrell ordered me.