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  Theresa looked up from her steno pad where she’d been writing furiously. “You want to be on duty for the whole event?” Her eyes widened and I could swear a look of awed admiration flickered across her face. “How wonderful of you. Such a sense of duty. But you can’t, you know. You’ll be riding in the parade as the Grand Marshal.” Her tone capitalized the words. “And the rest of the time you’re our Goodwill Ambassador.” More capitals.

  Quantrell’s mouth tightened. “I’ve told you before. I’d rather not be stuck in the parade. I’m a paramedic. I want to be doing my job.”

  “Not want to be Grand Marshal?” Janowski stared at him, outraged, another victim of capitalization. “It’s such an honor.”

  “You can’t let us down,” Theresa cooed at Quantrell. “We’re all counting on you. And it’s all because you’re such a good paramedic.”

  It was all because of good publicity but I kept my mouth firmly closed. I wasn’t about to do or say anything that might disrupt proceedings as planned. If Quantrell backed out—and honestly I couldn’t blame him if he did—we’d have to come up with a new Grand Marshal. And since Quantrell’s name had already been announced in the newspapers and on the radio, a last-minute change would produce a wealth of speculation and require a lot of explanation.

  So why did Quantrell want out?

  Quantrell sighed and nodded. “All right but I can still be on duty while I’m being the Goodwill Ambassador.”

  “Why do you want to be on duty?” Sarkisian asked, his tone holding nothing more than mild interest.

  That put me instantly on the alert. I knew Sarkisian’s subtle interrogation methods. Did he consider Brian Quantrell a suspect in Lee Wessex’s murder? Why?

  “You want an excuse to be on the inside track of the investigation?” John Goulding demanded with far less finesse than Sarkisian.

  Quantrell shrugged. “I could just use the hours and holiday pay.”

  Sarkisian regarded him with that air of interest that always drew more information out of his suspects.

  Quantrell’s expression became a trifle sheepish. “And yeah, I guess I do want to know how the investigation is going. I object to people being murdered. I deal with enough illnesses and accidents and even suicides. I don’t see why people should go around adding to all that by deliberately killing each other.”

  “Oh well said,” breathed Theresa.

  Janowski shot her an irritated glance. “Very commendable,” he agreed dryly.

  I shared Quantrell’s sentiments of course. But the way he said it sounded just a bit rehearsed. Even though I might doubt a bit of his sincerity I didn’t doubt his interest in the murder. Why, I wondered, was he taking it so personally?

  “Sarkisian.” Becky Deschler hurried up behind us only to slow as all of Lizzie’s dogs—at least all those Lizzie had brought with her—raced toward the deputy yipping their little heads off either in excitement or threat or more probably both. Even Mazda hobbled after the others, his woofs blending into the general cacophony.

  “Can’t you keep those damn dogs quiet?” Janowski shouted at Lizzie over the commotion.

  “You’re not a dog person, are you?” She smiled sweetly at him and scooped up Mazda with surprisingly little trouble. I’d already discovered how deceptively heavy the little beastie could be. Lizzie must be strong.

  Sarkisian went to meet Becky and they held a low-voiced conversation. I had no idea what information she delivered but it seemed to please the sheriff. Becky grinned at him and turned back the way she’d come.

  For a long moment Sarkisian remained where he was, bouncing slightly on his heels, then he returned to us. His expression gave nothing away. “Shall we go on to the parking lot?” he suggested and kept walking.

  I hurried to catch up. “What was that all about?” I demanded in a low voice.

  “Ramirez sent her over. He wanted to make sure I didn’t forget to officially show up at the department.” He shook his head.

  “And he didn’t have the nerve to remind you himself?” I was going to get teasing mileage out of this. If he ever brought up cat hairs again I now had some ammunition with which to fight back.

  We reached Lot B. Pete Norton pointed out the route cars would take from the livestock entrance to reach this alternate parking area and Sarkisian gave his approval. Janowski beamed at him and Pete placed the call that would summon his assistants. With Theresa delGaurdia following him on Janowski’s orders, Pete took off for one of the other storage sheds to begin unearthing the sawhorses and signs to direct the people who would begin arriving all too soon. At least I hoped they’d arrive.What if I gave a talent show and no talent showed up? Possibilities like that always haunt me on the brink of events.

  “The natives are looking a little too complacent,” Sarkisian murmured to me as the others turned to follow Pete. “Time I got them restless.” He drew a plastic bag from his pocket and held it up.

  Janowski stopped in his tracks. “What’s that, Sheriff?”

  “Anyone seen this before?” Sarkisian asked.

  Quantrell came over and peered at it. “Looks like a piece of paper in an evidence bag,” he said with determined non-helpfulness. “With typing on it,” he added.

  “This was in Mr. Wessex’s coat pocket,” Sarkisian stated, still holding up the bag. “Do any of you have an idea what it might refer to?”

  Lizzie, accompanied by Mazda and three of the poodles, came over and peered at it, frowning. Roomba continued her vacuuming patrols and the other doglets followed in the dachshund’s wake. “That’s—” She broke off and shook her head. “That’s got to be some sick joke. ‘Don’t forget. I know everything’. I mean, how corny can anything be?”

  “But have you seen it before?” Janowski asked.

  Lizzie shook her head. “Have you?”

  Janowski snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I haven’t. Why don’t you ask Theresa?”

  Sarkisian raised his eyebrows. “You think Ms. delGuardia might know something about this?”

  Janowski directed a patronizing stare at him. “She was Mr. Wessex’s administrative assistant, you know. She opened all his mail for him. He would have been lost without her or so she’s always telling me.”

  Lizzie shifted her hold on Mazda. “I wonder what it means.”

  Janowski took the plastic envelope from Sarkisian and studied it. “No clue,” he said at last. “Could be anything at all.”

  “You think someone knew he was going to steal all that money?” Lizzie suggested.

  “But he didn’t,” Quantrell pointed out. “He was killed. Maybe he was trying to stop someone else from stealing it.”

  Sarkisian rocked back on his heels, not saying anything, merely waiting with that encouraging expression on his face.

  Lizzie shook her head. “I guess we won’t know until our sheriff here sorts it all out. If only some of all that money…” A sudden frown creased her brow as she looked past Sarkisian’s shoulder. “Maybe she knows something about it,” Lizzie added without much hope.

  We all turned to see what had caught her attention.

  Connie Wessex approached, arguing heatedly with Pete Norton. She glanced up as if aware of our scrutiny, snapped one last comment to Pete and strode toward us.

  “She knows more than she ever said about his disappearance,” Lizzie declared. “Ask her if she’s seen that paper before. I’ll bet you’ll get a reaction.”

  Sarkisian’s gaze rested on Lizzie for a moment. “Then I’d better pick my time, hadn’t I? And speaking of time, it’s racing along, isn’t it. Why don’t you all go into the auditorium and check the facilities?” He glanced at me. “Got the sign-up sheets with you?”

  I gave him a slight nod of acknowledgement. He wanted to talk to Connie alone.

  “I’ll be along in a bit,” he assured me.

  “Promises, promises,” I muttered and began herding the others back the way we’d come.

  We reached the lot where we’d left our cars
to find Theresa talking to Pete and gesturing toward the entrance to the parking area. Before I could catch him, Pete headed into one of the other storage buildings and emerged a minute later laden with sawhorses. Two other men arrived in another electric cart—this one built rather like a truck—and began loading the barriers into its small cargo hold. Pete folded his arms and supervised. The dogs, Mazda included, ran around yipping and generally adding to the air of confusion. Only Roomba wasn’t distracted from her never-ending search of the ground.

  “Can you let us into the auditorium again?” I called.

  He directed a frowning stare at his assistants. Apparently he decided they were capable of stacking the first load on their own because he strolled over to join us. “Ready for our tour of inspection?”

  Janowski watched the chaos of men, sawhorses and dogs. “Don’t you have to go with them to make sure they set them up in the right place?”

  Pete hesitated. “I gave them their instructions. I’ll go along in a bit to make sure they haven’t messed up.”

  Meaning he wanted to stick with us? I couldn’t imagine why. Admittedly, the early stages of getting organized usually held an element of entertainment value for those not involved and easily amused—or terminally bored. I certainly wasn’t looking forward to listening to this group argue about every detail.

  Janowski shrugged and struck out across the grass, making his own shortcut to the stage door.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” Theresa protested. “It’s not right, there’s a sign that says ‘Keep Off the Grass’.”

  Janowski rolled his eyes. “That damn woman sees everything in black and white,” he muttered to me as he joined me on the walkway. “Now she’ll spend the rest of the day trying to punish me in subtle ways for ‘breaking a law’.”

  “Will she really?” The idea seemed absurd.

  The supervisor gave a short nod. “She’s a stickler, that one. Comes in useful when dealing with the general public but you’d think she’d lay off when it comes to her boss.”

  “Double standards,” I murmured.

  Janowski didn’t seem to hear. He was watching Lizzie strolling toward us, her pack of mini-yappers tearing around as if the air itself represented some terrible threat. “She’s walking on the grass,” he muttered.

  Beside him, Theresa gave an exasperated sigh. “Really, you’d think people couldn’t read.” She raised her voice. “It costs money to put up those signs, you know. There’s a reason for them.”

  “Probably to keep sign painters in business.” Lizzie shrugged, her thoughts obviously elsewhere. “Look, if Lee Wessex didn’t steal the money after all, then what happened to it? Who really took it?” She sounded aggrieved and I didn’t blame her. The money was supposed to have gone to the charity organization she ran.

  “There was a considerable amount,” she went on, “because it wasn’t just the entrance fees, it included a large number of charitable contributions. No one else has disappeared. So where is it?”

  Good question, I reflected. Someone must have a sizeable amount of money stashed away somewhere. Sarkisian would check everyone’s bank accounts of course but would the murderer be stupid enough to just deposit it somewhere obvious like that? I had a sinking feeling I’d probably be finding out firsthand. Any situation that comes up at the sheriff’s department that hints of money usually gets dumped in my lap. For some reason I’ve developed a reputation for being able to unravel financial swindles. I have no idea why. I think they just like to dump work on me and watch me sweat trying to come up with answers.

  Theresa sniffed. “I hope the sheriff will talk to Mr. Vanderveer.”

  “What?” Ivan Janowski stared at her. “Edward Vanderveer? But he—” He broke off. “Damn.”

  “What?” I asked, looking from one of them to the other. Vanderveer was a member of the Fourth of July Committee of course but I had no idea what connection he might have with Lee Wessex. And come to think of it, Vanderveer should have been here by now.

  “Vanderveer and Wessex were partners in their brokerage firm,” Lizzie explained. “The business went bankrupt when Wessex ran off. Vanderveer said Wessex cleaned out the accounts and took everything.”

  “But Mr. Vanderveer managed to salvage more than a million dollars,” Theresa declared, “of what he claimed to be personal funds and not stolen client funds.”

  “And you didn’t get anything.” Lizzie patted Theresa on the arm. “He should have given you some sort of severance package, all things considered.”

  Theresa stiffened. “I wouldn’t have accepted any. That money should have gone to the investors who lost money because one of them stole it all. And we now know it couldn’t have been Mr. Wessex.”

  Janowski shook his head. “Maybe it was. Someone else could have killed him and taken it all.”

  And was that someone his business partner, trying to save himself when Wessex tried to abscond with everything—including the investment firm’s reputation? If Vanderveer had found out what his partner was up to, that could be a viable motive for murder. I wondered how long it would be before Edward Vanderveer showed up this morning—or if Sarkisian would be forced to run him to earth for questioning.

  Chapter Four

  Our auditorium isn’t large but neither is our county. Nor our county’s budget for that matter. According to the fire marshal’s sign in what passes for the lobby, maximum occupancy is five hundred and eighty-three. How they arrived at that number is anyone’s guess. Like the rest of the fairgrounds, construction began in the late 1930s and continued sporadically until the early 1990s when it was declared not so much finished as a waste of more money. Let’s just say the style is eclectic though it has a charm to it I’ve always enjoyed. Judicious use of climbing ivy covers the worst of its sins and careful pruning reveals its more beautiful points. Now, aside from making sure the roof doesn’t leak and the wiring doesn’t catch fire, it’s left pretty much alone.

  Pete Norton led the way to the stage door and unhooked from his belt the carabiner with its heavy ring of keys, identified the right one and let us back in. The poodles raced inside along with Roomba doing her crumb searching routine. Even Mazda put on an impressive burst of her former zoom to investigate this previously terra incognita.

  “Hey.” Pete turned from the vanishing dogs to glare at Lizzie. “No animals allowed.”

  Lizzie straightened to her full if unimpressive height. “They’re my act for the talent show. They’ve got every right to be here.”

  “I don’t want those animals scratching the floors and shedding all over the place,” Pete snapped. “And they’d damn well better be housebroken.”

  “How dare you even suggest—” she began.

  “Lizzie,” I intervened quickly before the argument could escalate, “we need to put up signs directing people from Lot B to this door.”

  Pete transferred his glare to me. “My guys will take care of that.”

  “Great.” I managed to put some real enthusiasm and approval into that word. Rule Number Three for the business, try to keep the clients and the facility people from wanting to murder each other.

  I looked around. “They’ll be coming in by this door and we don’t want them running amuck all over the backstage area.” Here I had the satisfaction of Pete regarding me with a measure of approval. “Mr. Janowski? Let’s set up three tables right here. One for handing out registration forms, one where the people can fill them out and one to hand them in. Then the committee can sit in the seats right in front of the stage to watch the auditions. Pete? Where are the folding tables?” I pushed the forward momentum before it got away from me. I’ve discovered—the hard way—there’s a fine line between productivity and chaos.

  Pete headed toward the nether regions of the backstage area. Janowski—typical of him—sent his assistant Theresa to help rather than go himself. Janowski lounged against a wall flipping papers in the massive stack he held and glaring at them.

  Fortunately it was only a s
hort distance to the stage. It shouldn’t be too hard to herd the acts in the right direction so we could check them for suitability. We had agreed to hold the number of performances down to thirty-six, which gave us an excuse for turning down the R-rated and the painfully untalented. Of course with my luck we wouldn’t have enough show up. You never know with this sort of event.

  In a way it felt odd carrying on as if a man’s body hadn’t been discovered only a few dozen yards from here but his death had probably happened a year ago and this event would be starting all too soon.Keep your mind on your job, I reminded myself.Let Sarkisian do his.

  Just the thought of Sarkisian made me smile. Even if he was working, at least he was here in Merit County and not hours away at school.

  The rustling of papers let me know Janowski had accompanied me. Better get him busy before he thought up more things for me to waste time on. “Where are the people who signed up to handle the registrations?” I asked.

  He looked up and blinked at me as if his mind had been miles away. “Oh. They’ll be here.”

  Great. I much preferred hearing, “they’re right here”. But as I’ve said before, I take what I can get and try to make the best of it.

  “Let’s get the committee sitting there.” I pointed to the first row of seats. “Did you bring the clipboards?” As I’d reminded him to do at least a dozen times over the last few days.

  He shrugged. “I told Theresa to take care of it.”

  And that, as I’d already discovered, was his usual response to just about everything.

  Poodles erupted from the wings, yipping and bouncing, followed by the vacuuming Roomba and lastly by Mazda. Lizzie arrived in a more restrained manner.

  “What’s next?” she asked brightly. “Are we going to check the lighting and sound?”

  “Who’s in charge of that?” I asked Janowski.