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  Sarkisian filled her in on recent events. She sighed again and turned back to me. “You just can’t resist getting involved, can you? All right, let’s look at you first. It sounds like Mr. Vanderveer won’t mind waiting a little longer.”

  We found a measure of privacy in one of the dressing rooms and she subjected me to a thorough probing of my shoulder and arm. At last she sat back, a touch of her more normal cheerfulness lightening her expression. “Looks like you got lucky. It doesn’t feel like there’s anything broken.”

  “Oh good. How much worse would that feel?” I asked.

  She grinned—typical doctor. “You’ve probably got a few things pulled a bit. Want to go to the hospital for some x-rays just to be sure?”

  “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

  This time she actually laughed, a sure sign she was fast returning to her usual self. “All right. Keep it in that sling for now,” she advised. “I’ll stop by Gerda’s and take another look tomorrow. Provided you promise to have some of Charlie’s cinnamon rolls on hand.”

  I promised and thanked her and accepted the small bottle containing a few emergency pain killers she unearthed from a pocket in her bag. Fortified by a shared handful of chocolate chips we returned to the hallway. Sarkisian pounced on her at once and led her toward the basement where Roberta, now assisted by Salvador Rodriguez—the only other member of the team who’d made it—was hard at work.

  I sought out a drinking fountain and swallowed a pill.

  I assured myself that in about twenty minutes life would feel a great deal better.

  And I still had the barbecue and the fireworks show to survive.

  I tried not to think how much I wanted to go home and curl up in a chair with a lapful of cats and drink a cup of chamomile tea spiked with rum.

  Or better yet, sneak off to Reno with Sarkisian and get married. No late flights out there? Damn.

  “You ought to sit down.”

  I hadn’t even heard Sarkisian approach. I leaned against him and closed my eyes. “Just tell me none of this really happened.”

  He kissed my forehead. “Wish I could.”

  “Sheriff?” A young man I recognized as one of the members of Connie Wessex’s string quartet approached us hesitantly. “Sorry to disturb you.”

  Sarkisian let me go and turned to face him. “What can I do for you?”

  The violinist worked his lower lip between his teeth, obviously wishing he were anywhere else but here. “It’s about Connie. Damn I feel uncomfortable about this.”

  “That’s normal, especially when you know you should do something but feel like you’re betraying someone by doing it.”

  The man looked up, surprised.

  “But you’re not really the one doing the betraying,” Sarkisian went on, choosing his words with care. “The person who expects you to lie or conceal the truth is the one betraying themselves.”

  The young man nodded. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

  “So what did Ms. Wessex ask you to lie about?”

  “She wanted us—the quartet—to say we were all together, all the time. But it isn’t true. We were wandering all over the place.” His brow furrowed and for a moment I thought he wouldn’t say anything else. Then he rushed ahead. “I had the impression she slipped away at one point because we couldn’t find her anywhere. Then the next time I saw her was at least half an hour later and she was coming up this hallway. She’d probably just been in a restroom or a dressing room or something like that. I’m sure it’s not important but…” His voice trailed off.

  “Most likely,” Sarkisian agreed. “But I appreciate your telling me. It makes it easier for me to sort everything out.”

  The man seemed relieved that he hadn’t just gotten his fellow musician into trouble. He smiled, nodded to us both and walked away, much more relaxed.

  Sarkisian watched him go. “I think,” he said slowly, “I need to have a little chat with Connie Wessex.”

  “You think she—” I broke off, not wanting to voice the thought.

  “I have an idea about what might be behind her suspicious-looking activities but I might be wrong. I need to be certain.”

  “Come on, give.” I fixed him with a determined eye. “I’ve suffered enough in the cause of this investigation. What’s she up to?”

  “No reason not to tell you I suppose,” he decided. “I think she was meeting one of her several lovers.”

  “Several?” I considered. From what little I’d learned about Connie Wessex it did seem probable. She must have been seeing Brian Quantrell and Ivan Janowski at the same time.

  He nodded. “I’ve heard about three she’s seeing at the moment. There might be more. And from what I’ve been hearing about her tendencies, meeting one of them in a dressing room back here, where they might get caught, is very much her style.”

  “How…brave of her,” I managed. I started walking, just wanting to get away from the auditorium. “I’ve been thinking,” I began as we exited through the stage door.

  “Always dangerous,” Sarkisian interjected.

  Something about his tone alerted me. I eyed him, noting that distant expression in his eyes that tends to mean something has just occurred to him.

  “You know who did it, don’t you?” I demanded.

  “I think so,” he admitted. “Things are beginning to fall into place.”

  I didn’t bother to question how sure he was of what he’d worked out. He’s the most thorough man I’ve ever met. “And you don’t have any proof?”

  “Nothing solid that would stand up in court.” He slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me close. “It’s all pretty circumstantial. Going strictly by the evidence we have at this point, any one of them could have committed all three murders.”

  “So you’re basing it on character.”

  He nodded. “Even with extreme motivation, not everyone is able to bring themselves to the point of actually killing someone else. The person we’re looking for struck out at Lee Wessex—whether with the intention of killing him or just in anger, I’m not positive yet. But they were also willing to kill two other people only because of what they knew or guessed.”

  “Self protection is a pretty strong motive,” I suggested.

  “True. But it isn’t always enough. We’ve got someone here who considers their own reputation or staying out of prison for a few years or whatever to be more important than the lives of two otherwise innocent people. That’s pretty callous and self-centered.”

  “So basically, unless the person confesses, you’re stuck?”

  “At the moment,” he agreed.

  “You could set a trap,” I suggested but tentatively.

  He gave me a pitying look. “Remember what happened the last time I set a trap?”

  “I know, I know, I stumbled into it. But this time I’ll know ahead of time and—”

  “And someone else might stumble into it. I’m not taking that risk.”

  “But you can’t let this person get away with three murders.” I shivered. “Besides, murder seems to be becoming a habit with them.”

  “They won’t get away with it.” He sounded determined but I knew there was only so much he could do within the scope of the law.

  Movement in an otherwise deserted area near the livestock barns caught my attention and I realized it was one of Lizzie’s dogs—a blue one—vanishing around a corner. Where Lizzie’s dogs were, Lizzie wouldn’t be far away. Most people were either still in the auditorium or heading toward the barbecue. Lizzie and her little yappers were definitely bucking the trend.

  “I wonder…” Sarkisian let the sentence trail off and strode off in pursuit.

  Being me, I hurried after him, clutching my elbow in its sling to keep from jarring that shoulder any more than necessary.

  Yes, there was Lizzie just disappearing into one of the large structures not too far from the arena where—I hoped—the fireworks would almost be ready for their appointed blast-off. All nine of the little
dogs in their assorted colors flocked in with her, with Roomba patrolling the ground for any possible scraps and Mazda hobbling along in her wake.

  Rather than approach the barn directly, Sarkisian circled around so he wouldn’t be seen by anyone inside. Then he positioned himself where he could look through the huge opening. I took up a spot at his side.

  It was pretty dark in there. No lights had been turned on and it was rapidly approaching dusk—which meant it was almost time for the fireworks and I should be down there making sure everything was all right. But I wasn’t leaving Sarkisian until we knew what Lizzie was up to.

  She hurried across to a man—her Uncle Martin, if she were to be believed—and they engaged in an animated conversation that involved her gesturing wildly. The dogs rambled around, sniffing the fascinating odors of the little stalls—except for Roomba who continued her diligent search for anything she could inhale, edible or not. She selected several things, spat one back out then continued in high-powered vacuum mode.

  Mazda suddenly let out a joyful yip and bounded toward us as enthusiastically as anything as ungainly as a three-legged dachshund could bound. Lizzie spun around, her expression of dismay evident. Sarkisian stepped into the open as the doglet tried to scramble up his legs the better to be patted.

  “What do you want?” Lizzie demanded. “You-you followed me.”

  The man—Martin—shook his head. “I’ve heard the sheriff is pretty sharp, Lizzie. I’ll wager he’s guessed about you already.”

  She threw him a panicked look.

  “No help for it,” Martin went on. “It’ll be easier if you just confess.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “I-I can’t,” Lizzie protested. “It’ll ruin me and you know I need the money.”

  Her Uncle Martin hugged her. “So what’s the worst that can happen?”

  “Everyone will know,” she wailed.

  “So what? You’ve still got a damn good act.”

  My shock at hearing Lizzie told to confess changed to bewilderment. What had her act to do with her committing three murders? And earning money from Hot Dogs would be the least of her worries once she was faced with lawyers and trial and prison.

  “As long as it doesn’t have any bearing on the case,” Sarkisian said in his most reassuring tones, “there’s no need for it to come out.”

  She blinked back the tears that had formed in her eyes. “You mean that?”

  “I’ve never seen any point in revealing people’s secrets as long as they aren’t illegal. And there’s nothing illegal about what you’ve been doing. It’s a bit of misrepresentation, true but I don’t see why you don’t turn it into a double act.”

  “A lot more than double if you count the little Hot Dogs,” her Uncle Martin said cheerfully. “But I never wanted any part of performing. That’s why I’ve helped Lizzie—pushed her into it I suppose. And you have to admit she does a great act. Far better than I could do. And even if people knew,” he told Lizzie sternly, “no one would care you don’t train them yourself.”

  “I care.” She sniffed. “I’ve tried. You know how hard I’ve tried. They just won’t listen to me unless we’re doing a performance. You’re the only one who’s ever been able to get them to do anything.”

  I can really be slow sometimes. All the clues were there—Lizzie’s frequent consultations with this man, the fact the dogs tended to run amok when in her charge, even their occasional lapses on the stage. And her desire to keep her secret just that—a secret—explained the vagueness of her alibis, her inaccuracies about where and with whom she’d been.

  “That was a lot of fuss over something so minor,” I complained as Sarkisian and I left the barn and strolled back toward the noisy crowd.

  He shook his head. “Having people believe she was the dogs’ trainer was part of her image—in control and capable. You heard what she said about trying. She probably feels like just another of the dogs, trained by her uncle to do her part.”

  “Poor Lizzie.” But I knew why she put herself through the charade. She loved the furry little beasts even if she couldn’t train them. She’d need the money from the performances to pay the bills for the vet and buy them doggie chow and biscuit treats and everything else I knew she lavished on them.

  “Of course that still doesn’t put her in the clear for the murders,” Sarkisian said.

  I considered. “No,” I agreed at last. “It doesn’t.”

  The picnic grounds were getting crowded as Becky and John finished their chore of gathering names. I ought to make the rounds of the cooks to make sure everything was going all right for the barbecue. I didn’t want to leave Sarkisian’s side though. The memory of Edward Vanderveer’s body lying on top of me was going to haunt me for some time.

  “Where now?” I asked.

  He slipped his arm around my waist. “Arm hurting?” He always seemed to know.

  “I’m okay,” I lied. Actually it had begun to throb again and it wasn’t that long since I’d swallowed one of Sarah’s little pills. That didn’t bode well for the future. “I need to check on the fireworks again,” I said reluctantly. “Weren’t you on your way to find Connie Wessex?”

  “If I can find her in this crowd.” He kissed my forehead. “Watch your step.”

  I glared at him. “You know perfectly well I rarely fall down more than once a day.” I kissed him quickly and strode off—watching where I put my feet.

  The feverish activity in the arena continued. It was beginning to look like they were almost finished though which raised my spirits. I spotted the foreman checking the braces for one of the sets and crossed the dirt to join him.

  “When—” I began but got no further.

  “About an hour,” he promised without looking up. He tightened a bolt, shook the structure which didn’t move and sat back on his heels. Only then did he turn his head. “We’ll be ready to start about fifteen minutes later than planned. That all right with you?”

  “That,” I said with all sincerity, “is amazing. I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Good.” He rose and stalked over to the next structure and began testing it for security.

  Duty done. They’d be better off without me peering over their shoulders. Which meant on to the next duty. Time to visit the cooks.

  I made a circle of the food area. All around me people seemed to be enjoying themselves which was a good thing for me from a business point of view. I was also grateful Vanderveer’s murder was being kept quiet for as long as possible. I wasn’t up to answering questions about it.

  The lines at each of the booths and vans assured me that all the vendors would be making enough money on this event so they wouldn’t have cause to complain. Some probably would anyway but that was inevitable. Several of the chefs waved to me. Others were too busy to notice me until I eased myself between indignant customers who thought I was line jumping. No problems, no worries, no fights—so far.

  I heaved a sigh of relief and headed toward Charlie’s area. Aunt Gerda would be there and after the day I’d had I could use a good dose of her sympathy. I suspected it would do me more good than all of Sarah’s little pills.

  I found Sarkisian first which surprised me. “Did you locate Connie Wessex already?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “You look just about done in.”

  “Only a couple of more hours to go,” I assured him with as much cheerfulness as I could muster.

  He took my good arm and we started together toward Charlie’s.

  We’d taken no more than a dozen steps when Salvador Rodriguez caught up with us. He had that determined glint in his eye that warned me barbecue would not be in our immediate future.

  “We got a match on those fingerprints on the latest murder weapon,” he announced in a low voice.

  Sarkisian drew him aside. Since he still held my arm I went along too. None of us said anything until we were clear of the picnic area and part way to the auditorium, well out of hearing range of anyone who might be interested.r />
  “I didn’t know you’d found the weapon.” I looked from one to the other of them. “What was it?”

  “Just a length of half-inch pipe,” Sarkisian told me.

  “With traces of blood and hair on it,” added Rodriguez.

  “And the match?” Sarkisian prompted the man.

  “Brian Quantrell.”

  Sarkisian nodded and I had the distinct impression this didn’t surprise him. It surprised me though. His prints had also been on the golf club used to kill Wessex. If he’d killed Vanderveer, I’d have expected him to be more careful. After all, he had a supply of latex gloves he used in his work. If he’d gone to all the trouble of setting a tripwire it sounded as if he’d done at least some planning.

  I looked up at Sarkisian. “Time to talk to Quantrell?”

  “We’ll get you dinner soon. I promise.”

  “Yeah right. I’ve heard that one before.”

  Quantrell was sitting on a bench on the edge of the picnic area, staring into space, an empty plate of something that looked very messy—and delicious—beside him. No, not into space I realized. He was staring very intently at something—or somebody. I tried to determine who but the area was too crowded. It could have been anyone.

  The crowd shifted and suddenly I could see Janowski and Theresa standing close together. They were arguing, I realized, which was not normal. Theresa was usually so deferential toward him. Janowski must be driving her mad with this event. On the bright side—for him, at least—this might abate a bit of her hero worship of him. Perhaps that was what had Quantrell frowning since it already appeared she’d been transferring some of it to him.

  Janowski made a sudden violent gesture and Theresa cringed. That alarmed me. If Ivan Janowski was in the habit of hitting people over the head with blunt instruments, Theresa might be in grave danger. Of course if it were Theresa who had been clubbing people, Janowski had better watch out.

  I sighed. Any one of these people could be guilty and I hated not knowing which.

  The incredible aroma of barbecue wafted toward me on a sudden breeze and I realized how hungry I was getting. I hoped this wouldn’t take long.