HotDogs Page 7

  “He was in one of the dressing rooms. And the door was shut.” He looked at her accusingly.

  “Shut?” Lizzie squealed the word. “That does it, this is disgraceful.” She rounded—not unexpectedly—on me. “Someone is trying to sabotage my act by hiding my dogs.”

  “Why would anyone need to do that?” Quantrell asked.

  Fortunately his wording seemed to slip right past Lizzie. She took Ogden from him and cradled him close. “Were you frightened, you poor dear? If I find out who did it, I’ll kill—” She broke off.

  “No one would hurt your dogs,” Quantrell said soothingly. “Someone probably just looked in the dressing room for something and didn’t realize the little guy had slipped inside as well.”

  “What were you doing in there?” I asked then realized I could have phrased it a bit more diplomatically.

  “Thought I heard something, so I went in and fell over the dog.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be on duty now?” I asked. That could have been why he was prowling around, checking to make sure people weren’t where they shouldn’t be and getting themselves injured.

  He had the grace to look a trifle sheepish. “I was looking for a quiet place to warm up,” he admitted. “I play the guitar and, well, I’ve been trying to get up my nerve to audition. I mean, I know everyone. They know me. Think how embarrassing it would be if they had to turn me down.”

  Very true. But there was something about his manner that didn’t quite sit right. Oh I didn’t doubt he was going to audition for the show. I was beginning to think that every single resident of Merit County was going to turn out with an act. But had Brian Quantrell really been looking for a place to warm up? I had the distinct feeling he was lying. But Sarkisian has more than once told me I’m too suspicious for my own good.

  I’d been vaguely aware of someone singing a folksong but I hadn’t been paying it much heed. An anguished cry and a crash coming from the stage, followed by a volley of high-pitched yapping, changed that. I sprinted toward the uproar barely steps ahead of Quantrell, Lizzie and Sue, with Neil bringing up the rear.

  A middle-aged woman, still clutching her guitar, lay on the floorboards beside a fallen stool. Two of Lizzie’s poodles were in full challenge mode less than two feet from the woman’s shoulders, barking their little heads off.

  “Roosevelt. Howard,” Lizzie shouted in a sharp voice that brought only desultory results. One of the doglets cowered back then slunk to her side but both kept up a steady growling. Lizzie hurried forward. “I am so sorry,” she cried as the woman clambered to her feet.

  “They wouldn’t let me move to stand up,” she laughed. Amazingly she wasn’t furious. “No, I’m all right.” She waved Quantrell back.

  “I’m a paramedic,” he assured her.

  “And I’m a nurse,” came her response. “And don’t get mad at the poor little doggies, that dachshund startled me and I overbalanced the stool. The poodles must have thought I’d attacked them.”

  I hoped the judges were giving this woman a pass straight into the show. Anyone this good-natured deserved to be rewarded.

  “At least let me help you. And I’ll need to fill out a report.” Quantrell reached for her guitar. The smile he directed at her as he handed over the instrument could have melted ice—if there had been any around on this warm July day. He had certainly turned on the charm full blast. Was he trying to make sure she didn’t sue the county?

  I followed them as they left the stage. Quantrell insisted on supporting the woman’s arm despite her assurances it wasn’t necessary. As we passed the stairs leading up to the lighting loft I almost ran into Edward Vanderveer who had just descended.

  “Up to his old games, I see.” Vanderveer nodded toward the two figures who retreated toward the dressing room area.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Our hero Brian Quantrell,” Vanderveer said, “has a fondness for wealthy older women, married or not.”

  “Oh?” I wasn’t sure whether to be amused or worried. These men were going to have to work together during this event and I had to play lion tamer for it all. If they didn’t get along I’d rather know right off the bat rather than find out at some critical moment.

  “Don’t you remember what he was up to last year? Oh that’s right, you weren’t around.”

  “No,” I agreed, trying to look interested rather than apprehensive. “What happened?”

  “He was making a play for Connie Wessex, trying to get her to leave Lee and marry him.”

  I almost protested on the grounds she must be at least ten years older than Brian Quantrell then had the good sense to keep my mouth shut. Age difference was no barrier to love and shouldn’t interfere with a relationship. After all, I’m six years older than Sarkisian. “If he really cared for her—” I began.

  He waved my words aside. “He cared for her money and believe me, she has a lot of it to care for. And a very generous nature with everything except that money, if you know what I mean.”

  “She led him on?”

  Vanderveer gave a short nod. “In every possible way. He must have thought he’d be a shoo-in as husband number two. Except she didn’t want to leave Lee.”

  “So you’re saying,” said Sarkisian’s calm voice from only a few feet away, “that he had a real motive for killing Lee Wessex last year.”

  Vanderveer jumped and spun to face the sheriff. “I didn’t say that. Did I?” He suddenly looked thoughtful.

  Too thoughtful? Had he just carefully dropped that information on Sarkisian? He might have known perfectly well the sheriff was right there.

  And if so, why was he deliberately causing trouble for Brian Quantrell?

  Chapter Six

  The near-disaster on the stage seemed to have blown over and the frenetic chaos settled down to normal chaos.

  Janowski shoved the stool to one side. “Lizzie,” he yelled, “keep your damn dogs quiet or get them out of here until it’s your turn to audition.”

  “Maybe she should go next, then she can leave and take those mutts with her,” Vanderveer suggested.

  “They aren’t mutts,” Lizzie cried, turning on him.

  “Well they’re in the way.” And with that he remounted the steps.

  Lizzie sniffed. “He thinks they’re just dogs,” she complained to me. “All of them do. They have no idea the amount of training I’ve put into them, the amount of time and care.”

  “Was Lee Wessex like that?” Sarkisian asked.

  Lizzie hugged Ogden. The tap of toenails at our feet assured us Roomba was busy at her role of vacuum cleaner. “Wessex,” she said with care, “was a real jerk. Everyone knew that. And just because he managed to get himself killed doesn’t make him innocent of all those thefts. Roomba. Howard. Roosevelt. Come on.” Surrounded by her dogs she stalked back to the seats with Mazda bringing up the rear.

  “Lizzie’s only telling half the story there,” Janowki said as he joined us.

  There went my hopes of thirty seconds alone with Sarkisian. I repressed a sigh and focused on him.

  “Oh?” Sarkisian turned to regard him.

  “It was Wessex who made that dachshund of hers lose its leg,” Janowski confided in an under voice.

  Sarkisian raised his eyebrows in that expression that always convinces people it’s safe to talk to him and he’ll believe every word they utter.

  “During the setup for the fireworks last year he was racing off in his usual ‘no-one-on-earth-matters-but-me’ style and ran over the little dog. Crushed its leg, I gather. Lizzie confronted Lee, saying she had to take it to the vet at once and he’d better pay the bill. He just laughed at her and told her it was her own fault for not keeping the damn animals under better control. And,” Janowski mused, “I don’t—I mean didn’t—agree with Wessex much but that time he was in the right of it. Those dogs are a menace.”

  “What did she do then?” Sarkisian asked.

  “What? Oh, she went to the vet of course.” He
didn’t seem interested in that part of the story.

  Neil, who had returned to duty, called the names of the next auditionees and Janowski returned to the front.

  I looked sideways at Sarkisian. “Lizzie really loves those dogs.”

  He smiled, not fooled in the least. “You think that gives her a motive to kill him.”

  “Well…” I considered. “If she was distraught over her dog and he told her it was her own fault and he wasn’t going to pay the undoubtedly astronomical vet bill, she might have struck out at him.” I hesitated. “How was he killed?”

  His deep rich chuckle broke forth. It’s an incredibly attractive sound—except when it’s aimed at me, which it is all too often. “Autopsies first.”

  “Well, if it turns out someone hit him over the head, you’ve got a suspect who was good and furious with him.”

  He shook his head. “You’re slipping.” That twinkle in his eye was always a dead giveaway that he was teasing me.

  “All right, what am I overlooking?” I demanded, resigned.

  “The money he stole belonged to Merit County First. And who manages Merit County First?”

  I opened my mouth then closed it again. “Lizzie. Her dog and her organization’s money.”

  Sarkisian grinned. “Well, have fun with that.” He kissed me quickly and turned to leave.

  “Hey wait a minute.” I caught his arm but there was more frantic yipping from the dogs and Janowski’s voice rose to shout at Vanderveer up in the lighting loft and everything seemed to go wild. Again. I threw Sarkisian a fulminating glare but he just grinned at me, raised a hand in a token wave and removed himself to the relative quiet of his murder investigation.

  I hadn’t started on the parade lineup yet. I would as soon as the current crisis blew over, I promised myself. I started for Janowski to see what needed sorting out only to halt as a commotion rose from the sign-up tables.

  I hurried over there to find Pete Norton wielding a broom, shooing two of the poodles into a corner. “Where’s Lizzie?” I asked. I’d thought she and her dogs were safely in the seats.

  “Gone for their leashes. Don’t know why the damn woman didn’t have them all restrained to begin with.”

  Another poodle, followed by the maimed Mazda putting on an amazing turn of speed, raced around a corner, possibly engaged in a game of tag and tripped a woman who had just passed the sign-ups. She spun, did some fancy footwork and stopped before us with arms spread. “Ta-da,” she cried.

  I couldn’t help but laugh at Debra Carlisle, tap-dancer extraordinaire and recent member of the SCOURGE elite squad. She’s also an incredible potter and sells her beautiful creations in my aunt’s shop in Upper River Gulch.

  “I see it’s chaos as usual,” Debra added.

  “You’re going to tap dance?” I asked. If she did it would be another highlight for the talent show. Her energy is only surpassed by her ability and sense of fun.

  She grinned. “My girls.”

  Not her own, mind. She and her husband both swear they aren’t ready for kids. But she’s begun giving ballet and tap dance lessons to the children in Upper River Gulch as an outlet for her talent and rumor has it—I haven’t braved watching a class myself—the kids aren’t half bad.

  “Where are the little monsters?” I asked.

  “Playground, under parental supervision,” she assured me. “As soon as I get an audition time I’ll call for the little terrors.” She brandished her cell phone.

  Theresa scurried from the stage area. “There you are, Pete. Mr. Vanderveer needs your help with the lighting for a minute.”

  Pete sighed. “What about these dogs?” I took the broom from him and he shook his head. “Brave.” He followed the relieved Theresa.

  I looked at the broom then at the dogs then leaned the broom against the wall. “Doggie treats would be much more to the point,” I told an amused Paul.

  “Don’t you dare,” Lizzie protested. She pushed past the still-crowded entry and strode toward me. “I don’t want their poor little tummies upset just before a performance.” She had at least half a dozen leashes draped over her arm but not a single doglet attached to any of them.

  “Hey, where’s the next act?” Neil called. “What’s the holdup?”

  Quantrell, clutching a twelve-string acoustic guitar by its neck, emerged from behind a fold of curtain where he’d apparently been hiding from the confusion. He gave us a sickly grin before hurrying over and handing his form to Neil.

  “Nervous,” Lizzie pronounced. She casts a sideways glance at me. “I suppose Janowski told you all about how it was Lee Wessex who hurt my poor Mazda.”

  “Reckless driving,” I said, not quite accurately.

  She gave a vigorous nod. “I should have known that slimeball Ivan Janowski would try to throw some suspicion around. Trying to divert it from himself.”

  “Oh?” I’m nowhere nearly as good as Sarkisian at getting people to talk but luckily Lizzie intended to get in her own hints and innuendos while the getting was good.

  “Didn’t you know about their rivalry?” Lizzie lowered her voice to a hushed whisper as if she were revealing some dark dangerous secret rather than a bit of malicious gossip.

  “What rivalry?” I asked in equally hushed tones. Hey, I’d play along.

  “Typical Geek versus Jock, dating all the way back to high school days, I gather. For as long as I’ve known them. Lee was always riding Ivan about needing pocket protectors and glasses and making jokes about how the only sports he could play were computer games. And Ivan came back with Lee’s brains being in his pants and how it was a good thing he married money because he didn’t know the first thing about anything that happened off a sports field.”

  “They kept it up for…” I did some hasty mental math which is never easy for me. “Over twenty years?”

  Lizzie nodded. “For awhile it had just become habit with them without any real malice. But at the beginning of last summer it became serious again. Lee must have found out about the affair his wife was having with Ivan. You really should have seen them. They were yelling at each other at last year’s parade. I think more people were watching them than the marchers.”

  And that night someone had killed Lee Wessex. Interesting. Not conclusive of anything of course but interesting nonetheless.

  Opening chords from the stage announced that Brian was getting down to business. Some intricate finger work followed and I realized he played classical, not folk or rock and was surprisingly good. The run of notes though was punctuated by a renewed yapping.

  The music broke off. “Lizzie,” came his irate shout. “How the hell can I be expected to play over all the racket your damn dogs are making?”

  “Roosevelt,” Lizzie called but was completely ignored by the doglets. She sighed. “Sorry, Brian.” She hurried out to the stage to begin the roundup. “Really,” she added as she began attaching leashes. “You ought to be flattered. They were giving you their appreciation bark. They liked your music.”

  “Hah.” A man who had sung earlier but had been hanging around listening glared at her. “It’s attempted sabotage. She wants enough people eliminated so her stupid dogs will get a spot.”

  Lizzie spun around, bristling with anger but I hastily intervened. “Are you going to have the dogs sing this year?” I asked with attempted joviality.

  Lizzie transferred her glare to me.

  “Neil, do you have her paper?” I asked.

  He grinned, obviously enjoying the uproar. At least someone was. Sue was too, judging by her expression. The sympathetic wink she gave me soothed my ruffling feathers as I knew she intended it to. I can always count on Sue in a crisis.

  “Why don’t you go next, Lizzie?” Neil called, thereby saving me the trouble of making the suggestion. “Then you can take them home where they can rest up for the big show.”

  That mollified her. Somewhat. She went to collect her props.

  As curious as I was to see Hot Dogs perform, I didn�
�t get the chance. Paul and Faith called me to answer questions from potential marchers in the parade and before I’d finished with them Lizzie and her canine troupe were jostling the people still in line, trying to make their way through to the exit. Those waiting obviously had no idea how much chaos the doglets had created or they would have moved out of her way more quickly.

  “Theresa,” I heard Ivan Janowski’s irritated shout from the stage. “Get down here, will you?”

  If he were reclaiming his assistant that meant Edward Vanderveer would be alone. And not happy about it. With a sigh I excused myself to the paraders who wanted to tell me all about their previous experiences in the Merit County Parade and made my way back to where the committee members were growing restless. Two acts waited their turn to audition but despite Neil’s and Sue’s best efforts to keep the day’s schedule moving, everything had come to a grinding halt.

  “What’s up?” I asked as I emerged onto the stage.

  Janowski glared at me. “Why didn’t you arrange for catering today?”

  “You said it wasn’t in the budget.” Which was a shame. Right about now I could have used some of Charlie Fallon’s choicer offerings. Charlie had been another member of the yacht club where I’d met Paul and Faith Alvarez. He too had moved to Upper River Gulch where he’d taken over our tiny town’s café, making it so crowded he has to take reservations. He’s also the caterer of choice for the events I organize. Besides, if he were here my Aunt Gerda wouldn’t be far behind and I enjoy my aunt’s eccentric—and sympathetic—company.

  Janowski opened his mouth then apparently thought better of what he’d been about to say. Instead he shouted for Theresa again despite the fact she’d reached the bottom of the steps and was only a few feet away. “Call out for pizza and have it delivered,” he told her.

  She brought her steno pad and pen to the ready. “How many and what kind?”

  “Do I have to decide everything?” he demanded testily then relented. “Get a variety. Four should be plenty. They’re for the workers only. The county is not going to pay to feed the auditioners.”