HotDogs Page 3

How many was he planning on needing? I shoved that worrisome thought aside.

  “Those have to take priority over everything else,” he went on.

  He was right of course.

  “Not over a murder investigation,” John stuck in.

  “I have to take my orders from the sheriff,” Pete said. “You know that, Quantrell.”

  “Annike—” Quantrell appealed to me.

  I held up my hands. “I can’t tell Sarkisian how to run his investigation.”

  John snorted but fortunately held his tongue.

  “The routes that we’ve always used won’t be affected by the crime scene,” Pete said grudgingly. “There’s plenty of room for the vehicles to get through if necessary.”

  He’d been teasing the Fourth of July Committee? That was the last thing I needed with everyone already so on edge. I shot him a quelling look but he met it with a bland smile. I hadn’t realized Pete Norton enjoyed stirring up trouble. I’d have to keep an eye on him in the future.

  Quantrell glared at him. “The fairgrounds,” he said in an icy tone, “is getting old. It’s becoming a fire hazard just waiting for a match. Maybe we should move the location of everything this year.”

  “Where to?” demanded Ivan Janowski from the doorway behind us. He strode in, accompanied by Connie Wessex, both scowling. “There isn’t anywhere else even halfway suitable.”

  “There are parks,” Quantrell suggested. “We could hold the talent show outdoors. It’s being held before it gets dark, you know.”

  True. Once the sun set it would be time for the fireworks display. Though the way things were going here, we were setting off quite a few sparklers and bombs of our own right now.

  “Outdoors?” Connie shook her head. “My string quartet would never agree to that. Ivan, don’t let them.” And with that she stalked outside.

  Pete Norton didn’t seem to like the idea either. He shook his head. “It wouldn’t be possible. What about the sound system? What about special lighting for the acts? What about traffic and parking?”

  Theresa looked up from her clipboard. “Pete is right. Holding the events in a park would only make for even more chaos.”

  Quantrell launched into furious protests, trying to drag me into supporting him. I didn’t let him. I could see ways that all of Pete’s objections could be overcome but I kept my mouth shut. Occasionally I could show good judgment.

  Oh hell. No I couldn’t. “Why are you so anxious to have all the events moved?” I demanded of Quantrell.

  He broke off in mid-tirade and stared at me. For a wonderful not-long-enough moment he said nothing. Then he admitted, “I find the whole thing creepy, okay? Not to mention in very bad taste. I mean Lee Wessex’s body is lying out there. And it’s been there for a whole year with no one finding him. No one even guessing he was there.” He shrugged. “It makes me feel like the fairgrounds have too many hiding places that no one ever goes into. No one ever inspects. Some of the buildings could have unsafe areas. Who’d know?”

  John stiffened. “Are you suggesting there are more bodies lying around, just waiting for some poor unsuspecting soul to discover them?”

  “Who found this one?” I asked to stem off the new argument.

  “Me,” said Pete. “I’d unlocked the building to have it ready for the Fourth of July committee. Then I strolled in to turn on lights and make sure there weren’t any big hairy spiders lurking.” He made a face. “I found something much worse.”

  “Much, much worse,” I agreed.

  Pete gave an exaggerated shudder, apparently enjoying being in the spotlight. “He was lying near the back under a pile of buntings and boxes. I pushed a few aside to make sure there was nothing lurking there and that moved the tarp just enough so I could see a pair of shoes sticking out. So I moved things a little more and saw it wasn’t a dummy.”

  “Yes it was,” muttered Ivan Janowski.

  “No doubt about it,” Pete went on, ignoring the interruption. “It was a very dead body. Holding a sparkler in his hand,” he added.

  “Why do you call Lee Wessex a dummy?” I asked Janowski.

  The man blinked. “He stole all the money destined for Merit County First.”

  “He might have been trying to prevent the theft,” I pointed out.

  Janowski stared at me. “My god,” he breathed. “I’ve thought of him as being the thief for so long it’s going to take a bit to see things differently. I—”

  The distant sound of an engine, punctuated by high-pitched barks, interrupted him. We all returned outside, with Pete locking the door behind us, in time to see a white minivan with “Hot Dogs” and a picture of a poodle jumping through a hoop emblazoned on the side pull into the parking spot just behind Connie Wessex’s sports car. The door opened slowly and a dachshund and half a dozen miniature poodles scrambled out followed more slowly by a three-legged dachshund. Finally a petite woman dressed in navy slacks and a red, white and blue striped sweater emerged. She was really quite pretty, with piquant features and frizzy brown curls standing out in a halo around her head. She was in her early thirties but retained that bouncy demeanor usually associated with over-excited teenagers. Everything about her screamed “former cheerleader”. Everyone in Merit County knew Lizzie Mobley, who ran—and was the sole paid employee of—Merit County First.

  Her bevy of poodles darted all over the place, greeting people with excited yips, sniffing everyone and everything, then making a beeline for the storage building with its cheery decoration of yellow crime scene tape. One of the dachshunds followed more slowly, its nose fixed to the ground as it worked a serpentine pattern, sucking up anything loose in its path. The little doglet with only three-legs hobbled over to me, sat on my foot and stared up, panting blissfully.

  “Really, Mazda.” Lizzie shook her head fondly at the amazingly solid—and heavy—houndlet.

  “Mazda?” I asked. It sounded like a strange name for a dachshund.

  Lizzie regarded me with a touch of amusement. “You’ve seen their commercials? When he was a puppy he only had one speed. Zoom.”

  “They really are a nuisance,” said Connie from where she stood at the corner of the auditorium.

  Becky Deschler emerged from the building where the forensics team apparently had taken Sarkisian. I could see him standing in the doorway. “Will you kindly restrain your dogs, Lizzie?” Becky called.

  “Sorry.” Lizzie called the doglets to heel. Two complied. The rest continued their frenzied racing around. With a sigh she brought a small bag out of her purse and held it up, shaking it as she strode toward Becky and the poodles.

  That did the trick. The dogs came at a run, even the dachshund who was imitating a vacuum cleaner. Not Mazda though. Lizzie turned back and kept calling the three-legged beastie who occupied my foot and he kept panting and staring up at me with that idiotic expression of his. I finally scooped him up, amazed at how heavy he was, and carried him over while Becky filled in Lizzie on what had been found.

  “Is the money there?” Lizzie asked, excited.

  Becky shook her head. “Looks like someone else must have taken it.”

  The money was all anyone seemed interested in, I noticed. Didn’t anyone care that Lee Wessex lay dead in there?

  Sarkisian emerged and signaled to the middle-aged man and a younger woman who leaned against the hood of the ambulance. Quantrell broke into a trot, reaching the vehicle in time to help the other two paramedics pull a gurney from the back. The two who’d been waiting wheeled it toward the building and Quantrell returned to stand with the rest of our group. Connie strode back to her car and climbed inside. She didn’t start her engine but remained there, staring in the direction of the building where her husband’s body lay.

  The forensics team emerged carrying their bags. While the others went straight to their vehicles, Roberta Dominguez paused to pack up the equipment that had remained outside. Four of the little yippy poodles raced to help and Lizzie, Roberta and I were still struggling to get them
under control when the paramedics, followed by Dr. Sarah, emerged with the body discreetly enclosed in a bag.

  Sarah paused to watch our chaos. “Oh come on, Annike. You’re a lion tamer, aren’t you?” She was referring to one of our old jokes about my job. “Poodles ought to be a cinch for you.”

  I held out the hefty weight of Mazda whom I still carried. “You could help,” I suggested.

  Sarah shook her head, grinning. “I wouldn’t want to spoil your fun. Besides, I seem to have a job of my own waiting.” She waved to me and strode over to where the paramedics had just loaded the gurney with its somber burden into the back of the ambulance. They consulted with Sarah then set forth to deliver their passenger for autopsy. Sarah drove off after them. Connie didn’t move.

  Finally only Becky, John. Salvador Rodriguez and Sarkisian remained from the sheriff’s department to remind us that an investigation was underway. Well, them and the miles of yellow tape that wound all around the storage building and a large portion of the parking lot. The sheriff talked to his team for a few minutes. They nodded and headed back into the building. Sarkisian strolled over to the group Lizzie, her dogs and I had rejoined.

  Over the yipping greetings of the poodles, Lizzie demanded, “What’s going on?”

  Sarkisian shook his head. “Give us time,” he said. “We’ve got a bit of sorting out to do. As for you,” he turned to me, “I’ve got a few questions.” He took me by the arm and escorted me to my car.

  I leaned back against it, eyeing him in concern. “You’re tired.”

  “I left pretty early this morning. I was hoping for some quiet time. With you.”

  “Rough finals?”

  He nodded. I sympathized completely. Sarkisian had been in the master’s program for about a year now. He’d kept it a complete secret from everyone—even me—until he could no longer work strictly through correspondence with his professors. Now he had to arrange blocks of time to attend school though his professors had been agreeable about letting him work at his own pace—super fast—and turn in papers, do internships and take his exams at a schedule that could be worked around his duties as sheriff. The department had been glad to accommodate him too. I think I was the only one who hadn’t been happy about the amount of time he had to spend away from here. Well, me and that ridiculous bloodhound, Boondoggle, that had adopted him last Halloween.

  “Did you find anything helpful in there?” I nodded toward the building. “Names written in blood, signed confessions, that sort of thing?”

  He smiled. He has the most amazing smile. It leaves my knees weak. And I’m not the only one who melts under that expression.

  “A paper folded neatly in his coat’s inner pocket,” he said.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Well?”

  “It says ‘Don’t forget. I know everything’.”

  I felt my jaw drop and closed my mouth quickly. “Identifiable handwriting?” Hope surged in me. If this proved to be a short case, that would mean Sarkisian could spend more time with me.

  “Ink jet printer at a guess.”

  I gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well maybe it’ll have a few perfect fingerprints on it.” Hey, I can dream, can’t I? But blackmailers and murderers and the rest of the criminal fraternity watch TV cop shows just like everyone else and know better than to leave such obvious clues behind.

  Chapter Three

  Moments with Sarkisian were few and far between these days, so I wasn’t about to waste a single one. Already he had that touch of regret in his eyes and I knew duty was winning out. I leaned forward but my intention to kiss him was thwarted.

  “Annike,” came Janowski’s ill-timed shout.

  I cringed, met Sarkisian’s rueful eye and sighed. “Later, mister. I want you alone for at least ten seconds. Think you can arrange that?”

  “Can you?” he shot back and turned once more to the building.

  Wishing I could go with him, I returned to the people who stood together in a tight group looking worried. Only the dogs seemed oblivious to the atmosphere of concern. They romped around barking and sniffing. Except for poor Mazda. He leaned against Lizzie’s leg looking soulfully at me as I approached. As soon as I stopped beside the others, he shifted his long muscular body until his full weight landed on my foot again.

  Lizzie beamed at me. “Mazda likes you.”

  “Must be the smell of cat.” I currently lived with my Aunt Gerda, who had seven of the furry little monsters. I don’t think anything or anyone who goes in or out of her house has escaped the blessing of cat hairs.

  “Hey Roomba,” she called to the other dachshund, which was spitting out something it had just inhaled.

  “Roomba?” I asked. Then I made the connection.

  Apparently she saw the realization dawn on my face because she grinned and nodded. “It fits her perfectly. She’s just like one of those auto pilot vacuum cleaners, going on high power, just sucking up everything in her path. She’ll occasionally spit out something that isn’t edible. But not always.”

  Ivan Janowski frowned at us. “We need to go over the itinerary.”

  Ah, his precious itinerary. I didn’t blame him though. I’d be in serious trouble if I ever lost my laptop with all the copious notes I have to take for each event. I’m not a naturally organized person. I have to work at it. I suspected Janowski shared my problem but at least he had Theresa delGuardia to see him through.

  “I have it right here.” Theresa hovered at his elbow, a thick wad of clipped-together papers in one hand, her ever-present steno book and pen in the other. Someday when my business is raking in the money I’m going to hire a personal assistant. As I said, I like to dream.

  “Right.” Janowski took it from her and studied the top page. “‘Talent show sign-ups and auditions’,” he read then looked up at me. “Have you straightened it out with the sheriff for us?” He raised his voice with these last words.

  He wasn’t staring at me now but over my shoulder, from which I assumed Sarkisian must be nearby. That suspicion was confirmed when the dogs went off in a frenzy of yapping. Roomba vacuumed her way over to him. Even Mazda rolled off my foot and transferred his weight to Sarkisian’s as the sheriff took up a position not quite close enough to me. He has a way with all dogs though I’m not sure he’s delighted about that.

  “We’d intended to hold both the sign-ups and auditions in the auditorium,” I told him as he eyed Mazda with the expression of one who preferred something at least the size of a bloodhound. “If Pete doesn’t mind the extra work we can set up signs and sawhorses to guide people into a different parking lot then down a roundabout path to the stage door.” Wheelchair accessible, I reminded myself. Have to have that covered somehow just in case it’s needed.

  My laptop was still locked in Freya’s trunk. My oversized purse with its notebook and pen was on the front seat though. I ran for it, only tripping over two of the miniature poodles and returned in time to join the procession of people and dogs bent on ascertaining whether or not we could route the public to their destination without bringing them anywhere near the crime scene.

  I fell into step beside Sarkisian and immediately experienced that warm fuzzy feeling I always get when he’s around. Hey, I take what I can get. We exchanged a glance full of promise for later.

  Pete, who had headed for the electric cart he’d apparently driven to the storage building, hurried after us with a map of the fairgrounds, which he thrust in front of Sarkisian. I could have cheerfully strangled the man for joining us.

  “Duty,” Sarkisian reminded me.

  I muttered something extremely rude about duty that would have shocked my Aunt Gerda. Well maybe not. My aunt has been keeping company for the past year with Charlie Fallon, a retired chef, who has been known to express his negative opinions just as freely as I’d just done.

  Pete pointed to a building on the folded paper he held. “Here’s the auditorium,” he said unnecessarily since it was clearly marked. “The main entrance faces this way.”
Also an unnecessary piece of information since Sarkisian had just walked past it. “But the stage door is on this side.” He pointed again, first at the building as we rounded the corner and reached that entrance, then at the map.

  Sarkisian took it from him. “Parking Lot B isn’t all that far.”

  Pete nodded. “I can get a couple of guys out here to help me. We’ll get all the traffic diverted that way. We won’t let people anywhere near that storage building.”

  “Better call for your reinforcements then,” Janowski said. “The sign-ups are due to start in about half an hour.”

  I winced. My, doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun?

  “Now,” Janowski consulted his itinerary again. “Where should we hold the tryouts for the parade?”

  “Same lot?” Pete suggested.

  I shook my head. “No need. There aren’t any ‘tryouts’ as such.” I turned to Sarkisian simply because I preferred looking at him. “Any group that wants to take part in the parade merely sends a representative bearing a photo of their group in costume and fills out a form. Those who haven’t already done it through the internet site can do it inside the auditorium.”

  “Photo? Afraid of inappropriate costumes?” Pete asked, looking hopeful.

  “Now that might make things more interesting,” Brian Quantrell said from just behind me.

  Janowski directed a quelling glare at him. ”Being able to see what the float or band or drill team or whatever looks like will help us set up the marching order. We don’t want too many similar ones clustered together.”

  “And who,” asked Sarkisian, eyeing me with ill-concealed amusement, “gets to sort out the marching order?”

  “Ms. McKinley will be handling that,” Janowski announced. “I of course will go over it and change a few things if necessary.”

  Great. No matter how many hours I put into it he’d change things around. Then I’d undoubtedly have to redo it. Probably several times.

  “I’m accepting volunteers to help,” I said weakly.

  Quantrell shook his head. “I won’t have time. I’ve requested to be on duty throughout the event this year. Starting…” He glanced at his watch. “In about another hour. The sheriff’s department,” he added with a grin at Sarkisian, “will be needing a bit of extra crowd control, I suspect.”