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  Sarkisian, who’d also been scanning the crowd just as I had, turned back to Quantrell and got right to the point. “What were you doing with a length of half inch pipe backstage?”

  “Half inch… Oh that.” Quantrell rolled his eyes. “Did you take a good look at it?”

  “And?” Sarkisian prompted.

  “Perhaps you noticed it’s about the same length and weight as a golf club?” He raised his arms and swung as if he actually held one. “I was practicing a little with it. Hey, I was nervous. I was trying to keep my mind off the stage.”

  He’d been practicing swings with a real golf club shortly before Lee Wessex died. Too convenient, perhaps?

  Suddenly he frowned. “Why? Oh god, don’t tell me. That’s what was used to kill Vaderveer. Right?”

  “Anyone see you with it?” Sarkisian asked.

  Quantrell’s frown deepened. “I suppose so. I brought it out here so I passed lots of people in the corridor. I didn’t tap them on the shoulder and point it out to them though if that’s what you mean.”

  “Where did you leave it?”

  Quantrell gave an exaggerated sigh. “Hell, how should I know? I was nervous about my performance. I went back inside, picked up my guitar and about two minutes later went on stage.” He shrugged. “Maybe I left it beside my guitar case. I really don’t remember.”

  That actually sounded more plausible than if he’d known exactly where he’d left it and been able to give us the names of people who’d seen him with that pipe.

  Sarkisian thanked him then turned me around. “Time to feed you.” He guided me back toward the circle of trailers and vans and booths, the source of the delicious smells. “Chicken, beef, pork, ribs—looks like they’ve got everything plus all the trimmings. What would you like?”

  “Something I can eat with one hand.” And hopefully near a place where I could sit. And hide for just a little while from all the noise and bustle. My head had begun to ache and it was almost worse than my shoulder and arm.

  We headed for Charlie’s where the wonderful aromas of his cooking wafted out to draw us in. A lot of other people had certainly been drawn in by it. Sarkisian had to elbow our way through the crowd until they saw it was the sheriff, after which it was smooth sailing all the way to the counter.

  Aunt Gerda, who had been sitting near the back of his booth with a plate, rose slowly to her feet and fixed me with a stern—and worried—look. “You’ve been getting yourself in trouble again. How bad is it, dear?”

  She hadn’t heard about my falling down the stairs—or probably who had fallen on top of me either. I didn’t feel up to telling her but I knew she’d be furious with me if I didn’t.

  “Swear her to secrecy,” Sarkisian said with a sigh.

  Wonderful man that he is, he understood perfectly the consequences—if not the downright futility—of trying to keep such major news from my beloved aunt. So I told her—all except for where poor Edward Vanderveer’s body had actually landed.

  “Has Sarah had a look at you?” she demanded when I’d given her the edited version.

  “And Brian Quantrell. I’ve been thoroughly checked over. I’ll be fine in a couple of days.”

  “Poor dear. Faith and Paul are around here somewhere and I saw Sue and Neil about half an hour ago. We’ll all pitch in and get this event finished.”

  If my shoulder hadn’t been aching so much I’d have leaned across the table and kissed her. As it was I could only thank her, which I did with heartfelt sincerity.

  The tall distinguished figure of Theodore McKinley, my late husband’s uncle, pushed his way past the counter and into our little enclave. “Is this where I get the best barbecue in the state?” he asked in the booming voice that kept his students awake.

  Uncle Theo is the head of the Classics Department at Stowridge College, the small liberal arts school a few miles outside of Meritville. Over the years I’ve come to love him dearly. He and my Aunt Gerda were the mainstays that kept me from falling apart completely when my husband was killed. He and Sarkisian got along very well too. They’d first met when Sarkisian, who at that time had been sheriff of Merit County for less than a week, had answered a disturbance call on the campus.

  I settled in a folding chair provided by Charlie, and Uncle Theo took a seat opposite. Aunt Gerda and Sarkisian rounded up plates for all of us. I leaned back, closed my eyes and savored each mouthful.

  Aunt Gerda went back to helping Charlie wait on the customers. Uncle Theo was questioning Sarkisian about the course of the investigation. I ought to be touring the picnic area again, smiling and making conversation with the various cooks and attendees—playing my own role as Goodwill Ambassador. Thinking of which, I ought to be making sure Quantrell was doing his job in that respect. With two murders to live down this year, not to mention the discovery of Lee Wessex’s body, this event was going to need all the goodwill it could get.

  “Why wait?” Uncle Theo asked.

  My thoughts, I realized, had drifted from his conversation with Sarkisian. They zeroed back now and I came alert. Had Sarkisian just told him he’d figured out who the murderer was?

  “It’s not fair to her.” Sarkisian kept his voice low.

  “You think it’s fair to refuse to marry her?” A touch of amusement colored Uncle Theo’s voice.

  “Between the job and school—”

  “There’ll always be excuses,” Uncle Theo interrupted. “You’re saying you don’t have time to make a marriage work? Believe me, a relationship as solid as yours can survive anything except lack of commitment. You’re the psychologist. You should know that.”

  “But living apart is no way to begin a marriage. It’s more like a way to end one.”

  “Have you that little faith in her? Annike’s not a child and she knows what’s important in life—probably more than either of us considering what she’s gone through.”

  “Maybe when I’m done with the class work and I only have the thesis left.” Sarkisian’s tone made it final, ending the discussion. “How’s everything in your department?” he went on, transitioning not very smoothly to a new topic.

  The conversation veered to the various people Sarkisian had met during the course of that earlier investigation—thefts of computer equipment amounting to enough to fund the guilty students through the rest of their expensive educations but instead had gotten them arrested and incarcerated, not to mention expelled.

  I let them talk. I had some thinking to do with probably a good dose of conniving. I wasn’t about to let Sarkisian’s overactive sense of what he felt to be right ruin my marriage intentions.

  His phone rang, interrupting all of us. He answered then listened. “You’re sure?” he asked at last. “Right. Good job.” He snapped the phone closed and shoved it back in his pocket.

  “What is it?” I asked, opening my eyes at last.

  “Looks like I have to go to work,” he said. “I need to arrest your Goodwill Ambassador.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Brian Quantrell?” I gasped the name. My mind raced. He certainly had motive, his prints had been on at least two of the murder weapons, he’d been acting suspiciously and trying to stay out of the limelight today…

  Then the oddity of Sarkisian’s having said anything at all about what he was going to do struck me. He never let me know whom he was about to arrest for murder for the simple reason he knew I wouldn’t be able to hide my reactions if I saw the person before he did.

  I fixed him with as compelling a gaze as I could manage. “What for?”

  “Impersonating a paramedic.”

  “Impersonating—” I broke off. “What do you mean? Brian Quantrell isn’t a real paramedic? But he’s got the uniform,” I said lamely. “He’s got a job. Doesn’t that make him a paramedic?”

  “He doesn’t have a real license. Seems he failed his training. Twice.”

  “Then how was he able to get hired?”

  “It’s easier than you’d think to get a phony lic
ense.”

  “That’s the internet for you,” stuck in Uncle Theo. “You can buy anything there.”

  Charlie, who’d come near to listen, nodded. “And get away with murder,” he said then looked stricken at what he’d said.

  I felt sick. If Brian wasn’t qualified for the job, how many people’s lives had he endangered in the course of his work? And did that sort of callous indifference extend to hitting inconvenient men over the head with golf clubs and pieces of pipe? After all, if he’d killed accidentally it might not be that hard to kill on purpose.

  “Do you have to arrest Quantrell immediately?” I asked.

  He eyed me sympathetically. “You don’t want your Goodwill Ambassador arrested during your event?”

  “Bad publicity,” I assured him. “A month or two from now would be ideal. But I don’t suppose you can wait that long?”

  “My first priority,” he said, “is to make sure no one else gets killed.”

  I shot him a searching look. “You think it’s likely?”

  “Very likely. I want to take Brian Quantrell into custody tonight.”

  “He’s on duty, isn’t he? As a paramedic, I mean.”

  Sarkisian nodded as he rose.

  “Can’t you even finish your dinner?”

  “Later. I don’t want to take any chances.” He carried his plate to the trash can.

  Janowski’s voice boomed out over the loudspeaker. “The fireworks will begin in fifteen minutes. Please take your seats, everyone.”

  All over the picnic area people began to stand and move in the general direction of the stadium which wasn’t far away. It was almost completely dark, I realized, something that wasn’t obvious with all the lights the vendors had switched on. I checked my phone for the time. Only five minutes later than the worker had predicted. I was impressed. I could only hope the guys from the fireworks company had done their jobs efficiently. They’d certainly done them fast.

  Sarkisian struck off for the parking lot where the ambulance was parked ready in case of need. I followed, not wanting to be left behind. I still couldn’t believe Brian Quantrell was the killer but I’d felt that way about others in the past. There were times I suspected I must be a truly rotten judge of character.

  “How can someone have it in them to kill in cold blood and still seem like a really nice person?” I asked in a rather small voice.

  He wrapped his arm about me briefly. “You never want to see the bad in people, do you?”

  Progress was slow. People kept stopping us either to congratulate me on the success of the talent show or to ask Sarkisian about the deaths of Lee Wessex and Pete Norton. I thanked my well-wishers. Sarkisian returned the usual “it’s too early yet to comment” response. If we ran into Xena Osenika though she’d never accept that as an answer. And we’d never get rid of her. With as little fuss as we could manage—we didn’t want to attract attention—we disentangled ourselves from the crowd and struck out once more in search of Brian Quantrell.

  That had all taken too much time. The first rockets exploded into the air as we reached the path. We instinctively looked up to see the brilliant display of colored lights that blossomed in the dark sky. Apparently they’d decided to start with a real bang.

  Excited yipping erupted from nearby and I didn’t have to look to know who was there. A bevy of excitable doglets charged around the corner, some staring skyward at the fading lights and lingering smoke, others making a beeline for Sarkisian and me. I leaned down to fend off the excited Roomba who ran full tilt into my legs. Sarkisian caught Mazda who had put on a surprising turn of speed on his three legs. There was obviously no slowing some doglets down. This one could still zoom.

  Lizzie appeared in the rear with a number of the colorful poodles on leashes. “Fireworks always make them crazy,” she called, which we could take for an apology if we liked for the racket they made.

  “Poor things,” I said and meant it. “Wouldn’t they be happier away from here?”

  “I’d left them in the van with their treats and chew toys but they’re less afraid when they can see what’s going on.” She narrowed her eyes. “Where are you headed? I’d have thought you’d be in the stands. Has something happened?”

  “Just doing a perimeter sweep,” I said. “I’m working, remember?”

  Her face relaxed into a smile, illuminated as another explosion of both rockets and upset poodles and dachshunds filled the night with both light and far too much sound. “This has been a fantastic day. At least—” She broke off and gave an uncertain shrug. “You know what I mean. You did a good job for us.”

  I thanked her. I’d certainly worked hard. And it was not my fault a body had been found and two more people had been murdered. After all, that all revolved around last year’s event. Not my responsibility at all.

  We watched as a series of smaller balls of fire exploded to the accompaniment of more yipping from the doglets.

  “Are you going to try to watch the ground sets with them?” Sarkisian asked.

  Lizzie shook her head. “I’ll take them back to the van first. But right now I need them to get some exercise.” With that she waved at us and set off across the fairgrounds, away from the stadium.

  “Pandemonium on the paw.” Sarisian shook his head.

  “Boondoggle is much better behaved,” I assured him with less than the truth.

  “Trained by your aunt’s cats,” he agreed.

  “And That Damned Bird.”

  We reached the lot at last and spotted the ambulance at once, which was parked in a strategic position for rapid access and escape from the grounds.

  A paramedic—not Brian—leaned against the side, his arms folded as he watched the display lighting up the sky. He nodded at us as we approached. “All quiet?”

  “Except for the Hot Dogs,” Sarkisian agreed. “Where’s your partner?”

  “Brian? Didn’t he find you?”

  Sarkisian’s eyebrows rose. “Was he trying to?”

  “Yeah. Said he’d thought of something and wanted to tell you. Took off about ten minutes ago. I’ll call him if you like.”

  “Please do.”

  The paramedic placed the call and as soon as Quantrell answered told him the sheriff was at the ambulance. I couldn’t hear what Brian responded but the other paramedic said, “Right. I’ll tell him,” and disconnected. “He asked if you’d join him at the picnic grounds.”

  Sarkisian thanked him and we started back the way we’d come. “Why don’t you join your aunt?” he suggested after we were out of earshot of the ambulance driver.

  I hesitated. In all honesty I was surprised he’d let me accompany him this far. “You’ll be careful?”

  His smile warmed me. “I’ve got a lot to live for.”

  He kissed me and the sky lit up with brilliant lights. It might have had something to do with another rocket going off at that moment but I preferred to think otherwise.

  The yapping that continued, even after the reverberations of the rocket had faded away, warned us we would shortly have company. He released me with obvious reluctance.

  “Go on,” he said softly.

  I kissed him again quickly and started along the path. The bang of another rocket reverberated through the night only this one was accompanied by screams of fear rather than enjoyment from the crowd. I stopped, alert, even as Sarkisian broke into a run.

  “The damn thing’s going into the woods, not the sky,” he yelled at me.

  Already he punched buttons into his phone, probably calling the fire department. They had a truck on the premises in case of an emergency like this. They’d have it under control in a short time. I hoped. I followed Sarkisian, not toward the picnic grounds or the stadium but to where we could see flames rising into the air. The ache in my shoulder slowed me down but I kept going.

  I could guess what had happened. One of the firework stands hadn’t been properly anchored. The force of the rocket taking off had knocked it over, altering the course of the
damn thing. I could only be grateful it hadn’t gone into the crowd.

  At the back of my mind I knew a moment of thankfulness that I hadn’t hired the fireworks company, that they were the same one the county used every year. They couldn’t blame me for this latest fiasco. Could they?

  Hell, of course they could. At least they could try.

  A siren blared forth though why they bothered I couldn’t imagine. The truck wasn’t rolling very far. A number of people already dashed into the treeline, Sarkisian among them. I went as well. I’d stay out of people’s way but I wanted to be on hand to help—if there was anything I could do.

  The Hot Dogs were yipping and yapping up a storm, racing every which way in their excitement. Most of them trailed leashes and I made an attempt to snatch at one as the blue poodle attached to it dashed past. The firemen definitely did not need this. I lunged for another leash but the sudden pain in my shoulder made me slow and straighten.

  “Annike?” Quantrell ran up to me. “You all right? Don’t try to bend down.”

  I winced. “I’d figured that out.”

  “Better go back to the stands,” he told me and took off again.

  As he entered the line of trees I heard him say, “What?” in a startled voice then he collapsed on the ground.

  Oh god, not another one, not another one, kept repeating over and over in my mind as I stumbled toward him.

  If anything the barking became even more piercing and frenetic. Colorful poodles and the sturdy log-shapes of the dachshunds seemed to be everywhere. I was screaming Sarkisian’s name, I realized. As I fell to my knees at Quantrell’s side I felt something swish through the air where my head had been a moment before.

  I ducked and rolled, crying out at the sharp pain shooting up my neck, across my shoulder and down my arm. I continued rolling, half my mind screaming with the continued throbbing, the other half hearing the crashing through the underbrush of more than one person and the yammering of two dachshunds and at least half a dozen poodles in full pursuit.

  “Oh god.” Quantrell sat up, his hand going to his head, probing gently. “Damn.”