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  Another of the cats launched a successful assault on my lap from the other side and I looked down to see the tiger-striped manx Hefty settling in for the duration. I caught his front feet as he began to knead my legs and repositioned him. He curled up purring.

  Not for long though. I finished my dinner and dislodged the entire group as I stood to carry my dishes to the sink. Aunt Gerda headed me off, saying I looked too tired to stay on my feet and for once I allowed her to shoo me off to bed and leave the clean-up to her. And the cats. I spotted the black tom Clumsy living up to his name as he knocked over a wooden spoon and upended a saucer on his way to investigate what I might have left. The cats could lick the plates so clean I’d joked with my aunt about being able to put them away in the cupboard after their ministrations. Not that we’d ever actually done it of course, though I was tempted to try it some night when we had guests over just to see their faces.

  As Aunt Gerda had said, Vilhelm’s cage was covered and not so much as a single cheep greeted my arrival. I missed the parakeet’s normally verbose greeting but it was way past his bedtime. Mine too for that matter.

  He made up for it in the morning with a raucous reveille. His cage might still be dark but that never stopped him when he was in a cranky mood. And being locked in his cage all day without any company other than the bird in his mirror always ruffled his little green feathers. I let him out for a flap around the room while I headed toward the bathroom for a quick shower.

  Four of the cats were on parakeet patrol this morning, a fact made obvious when I tripped over the rotund Siamese Olaf. Calico Birgit shifted to get herself out of my way but orange Mischief took advantage of my stumble and dived for the door and the forbidden delights within. I dragged it closed just in time, catching him on the nose. He slunk off to swat the semi-innocent Dagmar who hunkered her gray and white furry body just behind the others.

  This was going to be just a typical morning for me, I reflected as I got ready for my day. On the whole it shouldn’t be too bad. I checked my schedule. Yes, we were going to festoon the auditorium with red, white and blue bunting and rosettes—when and if the ghoul squad finished with them. Then we were going to rehearse as many acts as could make it to check the lighting and let them get used to being on the stage. Some of the food trailers had requested entry into the picnic area a day early so they would have time to set up properly to be ready for the lunchtime festivities on the Fourth. I had to make sure we’d have extra sign-up forms and judging sheets for the ice cream flavor contest, the cotton candy sculpting contest, the sand castle contest, the balloon blowing contest, the berry recipe contest and the hot dog eating contest. Any contest dealing with food has made me uneasy since a rather memorable pie-eating contest one Thanksgiving weekend but I steeled my nerves to face it.

  We’d finalized both the performance order and the marching order during our quieter—to use the term loosely—moments the afternoon before. We’d set up staging areas for the parade and rehearsal times for most of the acts as well and posted them on the internet, not that I counted on anyone to actually check the site. And several of those who did would undoubtedly complain about their position in the marching order and there’d probably be a few who’d beg to have their position on the talent show program changed. I’d made a note to print out the program this morning and deliver it to Theresa to take to the county office for official printing before the requests could come in.

  Toward late afternoon the trucks bearing the fireworks would show up to start setting up their show. Most of their work would take place tomorrow though, hopefully safely distanced from the food booths, games and contests that would begin as soon as the parade ended. Speaking of tomorrow and the fireworks exhibit…yes, I’d already triple checked with both high schools our tiny county boasted. They promised faithfully to have as many of their band members as could be rounded up in the middle of summer on hand to play for the entertainment of the crowd as they ate the barbecue dinner and took their seats and waited for it to become dark enough to begin the show. I read the list over again. No, on the whole today ought to be a relatively easy day.

  Famous last words, a voice whispered in my mind but I ignored it.

  A louder, if tinnier one, began cheeping in my ear. “Dirty bird, needs a bath. Yummy bird, here kitty, kitty.”

  I removed Vilhelm from my shoulder where he pulled at strands of my permed hair, transferred him to his cage then fetched his bathtub and partly filled it with warm water. He perched on the edge, eyed the bird in the mirrored bottom then jumped in to attack it. The sounds of loud squawking and splashing followed me from the room.

  This time only the black Clumsy awaited me and he only made a token attempt to slip past to pay a visit to the parakeet. After a year and a half Aunt Gerda’s cats were finally coming to terms with being excluded from bird territory. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t try to break in of course but they seemed resigned to failure.

  My phone had yet to announce a call from Sarkisian. I knew better than to let that bother me but I missed the early morning talks we enjoyed while I still lay in bed and he raced for early morning classes or conferences with his professors. He’d probably had a really late night. I’d wait for him to make contact rather than risk waking him from what would probably have been a too-short sleep. I was still feeling put out though over not being able to spend a leisurely evening with only him—and Boondoggle—for company.

  I ate a quick breakfast of my Aunt Gerda’s homemade granola and a drink of yogurt and berries I threw in the blender and waved at my aunt who was outside catering to TediBird’s fastidious eating preferences—who knew that damn turkey would still insist on pancakes? Boondoggle, in typical hound fashion, stood on the back deck wolfing down whatever combination of proper dog food and table scraps my aunt had prepared for him. Satisfied that all was well in the furry and feathered critter department, I made my way down to the garage, bearing my laptop and briefcase stuffed with papers, charts and plans. My laminator and spare printer were still in the trunk. Saved time and effort that way.

  I had just backed out of the garage and clicked the door to close again when my phone sang out that “A Policeman’s Lot Is Not a Happy One”. A warm sensation flooded through me and I tapped my ear piece. “So you’re finally awake,” I said by way of greeting.

  “Am I? Oh good.” He sounded groggy.

  “How late were you up?”

  A yawn sounded over the phone. “I think I got four hours of sleep. Not bad really.”

  “Get anywhere?”

  “I kept Sarah up to do the autopsy. Final verdict still waiting on the lab results of course but barring anything from toxicology it looks like a straightforward bash over the head.”

  “I wonder if someone meant to kill him or just wanted to lash out at him?”

  His dry laugh sounded. “Oh I’m sure we’ll be hearing it was an accident. Where are you?”

  “Just heading down the hill.”

  “Don’t suppose you have time to swing by my place?”

  That was the most tempting offer I’d had in ages. I glanced at the clock I kept on the dash and my heart sank as I saw it was almost eight-thirty. “Have to take a rain check,” I said with sincere regret. “Tonight?”

  “All night?”

  I smiled—undoubtedly the fatuous self-satisfied expression of a woman in love. It would be nice to put some of the suggestions he’d made during long-distance phone calls into action. By now though I knew what the combination of an event and an investigation could do to our romantic plans. “I don’t suppose you could do some more investigating around the fairgrounds today?”

  “It just so happens I’ll be going over there as soon as I wake up.”

  “Then get some coffee brewing. I’m on my way there now.”

  “I’ll stop for some on my way. That’ll be faster.”

  After a few more minutes of talking of things that were no one’s business but our own he disconnected so he could get dressed
, check in with the department and get the investigation rolling once more. And, just by a happy coincidence, head over to the fairgrounds where he would probably have to spend more time questioning the people with whom I’d be working.

  I pulled into the parking lot a little while later to find almost a dozen cars already there. I could see the people who had come in them too, milling around the entrance to the building. Apparently Pete Norton, who was supposed to unlock the doors for us, was busy elsewhere. That meant we’d have to find him before we could begin.

  Ivan Janowski, with Theresa delGuardia scurrying in his wake, strode toward me as soon as I climbed out of Freya. “No keys,” he yelled.

  “I can’t reach Pete on his cell phone,” Theresa assured me. She was looking harried, as well she might if she’d had Janowski barking at her all morning.

  “Who else has a key?” I asked.

  Janowski hesitated a moment then turned on the hapless Theresa. “Find out,” he snapped. “And get them over here on the double.”

  Theresa drew her own phone from her purse and hurried toward the building. Apparently she knew how to get the necessary information. I joined the waiting group which consisted of Edward Vanderveer, Lizzie Mobley and a lot of her dogs, Brian Quantrell and the members of four of the acts.

  “Can’t we just run through our number right here?” asked a woman holding a clarinet case. “I’ve got to take the kids to their swimming lessons in less than an hour.”

  “It wouldn’t do us any good,” I apologized. “The whole point of this is to make sure we’ve got the lighting down reasonably well and to let you get familiar with the stage and the sound.”

  “We could have a jam session to pass the time.” Quantrell grinned and picked up his guitar case, which he’d leaned against the steps leading to the side door. “That way we could warm up and—” He broke off, staring at the shredded bark beneath the escallonia hedge.

  I followed the direction of his gaze and even as Quantrell stooped to pick up the shiny object I recognized it as a heavy bunch of keys.

  He held them aloft, smiling in triumph. “A whole handful of them,” he announced happily. “Think one of all these will let us in?”

  Janowski and Vanderveer almost collided trying to grab hold of them. Janowski won out, earning a glare from Vanderveer. Janowski mounted the few steps to the door and began a ponderous ceremonial testing of each one. The seventh turned in the lock and he triumphantly pushed the door open and strode inside.

  “I don’t like this,” I said. “Where’s Pete?” They looked like his keys. At least they were attached to a carabiner like his were.

  “Probably searching for his lost keys,” Quantrell said dryly.

  Could be. I joined the mob flocking inside to get out of the damp fog. Still I wished Sarkisian were here—for more reasons than one.

  Quantrell and I took charge of organizing the acts while Janowski settled himself with a notepad in one of the middle rows of seats. Theresa and Vanderveer headed once more to the lighting area. I could hear Lizzie calling her dogs who, led by the intrepid Roomba, raced around sniffing everywhere having a great time. As long as they didn’t create chaos on the stage or cause the waiting performers to protest I didn’t mind in the least. But then I’m used to furries underfoot.

  The first group—a folk-rock band who’d been playing together since the late sixties and refused to change either their repertoire or appearance—took their positions. They made sure I scribbled down notes on how they wanted the stage set.

  Barking began from somewhere in the recesses of the building but I ignored it, jotting down more notes about the feedback on the speaker system. The rockers, satisfied at last, took themselves off, still accompanied by the persistent barking.

  They were replaced by the anxious woman with the clarinet who rushed off as soon as she was given the okay. A three-person comedy act trouped onto the stage next, their material copied from a British team with only minor changes. The barking increased as more of the little yappers joined in but the actors forged ahead with determination. Ed Vanderveer did a very creditable job of following their movements about the stage with the swiveling lights. I could hear him calling tracking information to Theresa who was writing it all down.

  They were just reaching their climax when someone let forth with a loud piercing scream from the same direction as the barking. Maybe it was the fact that a body had been found yesterday that made me extra jumpy but an uncomfortable shiver raced down my spine. I took off at a run to see what was going on.

  Quantrell, just ahead of me, stopped short. I could see Lizzie, her hands covering her mouth, Mazda huddled against her legs. The other dogs yipped and howled, ranged in a semi-circle a few feet ahead of her.

  Quantrell and I pushed past her. On the floor, protruding from beneath a painted backdrop curtain that hung almost to the floorboards, was a pair of legs. In that strange state of shock I took in the lace-up work boots covered in grass clippings and the bottom portion of dark blue-gray work pants.

  “Raise the curtain,” Quantrell yelled at me.

  I hadn’t the faintest idea where the ropes would be. Instead I tugged it up enough by hand to reveal a man lying on his side with a pool of something dark surrounding his battered head.

  We’d found Pete Norton.

  Chapter Eight

  Quantrell knelt beside the man, checking for a pulse. “Get those damn animals out of here,” he ordered Lizzie as he rose.

  “Is he—” I began only to break off. No one could look like that and still be alive.

  Quantrell nodded. “Cold.”

  “He-he didn’t fall and hit his head, did he?” Lizzie’s voice sounded very small, very frightened.

  I dragged my phone from my purse and punched in the number of the sheriff’s office. Jennifer, who’d been the dispatcher for over twenty years, since even before my late husband Tom had been sheriff, answered on the second ring. “Jennifer—” I began.

  “Hi, Annike.” She never had any trouble identifying me just by my voice. “He just got in a minute ago. Isn’t he answering his own line?”

  “This is an official call.” I told her what we’d just found.

  She let out a low whistle. “He’s not going to be happy about this. He was muttering about having counted on a couple of days of vacation with you.”

  A short, derisive laugh escaped me. “Sarah’s going to love this too. Just what she needs. Another autopsy.”

  “Actually our work load’s been pretty light the last few months. The only murder we’ve had was that gang-related drive-by shooting back in May. Everyone’s been getting a bit lazy around here. Stirring them up like this will do them a world of good.”

  I had my doubts about that but I kept them to myself. “Well, get them stirred. We’ll be waiting.” I hung up but less than thirty seconds later my phone sang out with Gilbert and Sullivan and I answered Sarkisian’s call.

  “Please tell me this is your idea of a practical joke.” He didn’t sound like he was holding out much hope but then he knows my sense of humor, warped as it is, doesn’t run to that sort of thing.

  “Sorry. Not even a ploy to get you over here sooner.” I told him what I could see lying in front of me. “Brian Quantrell’s looked at him and he’s making Lizzie lock up her dogs and now he’s chasing other people away.”

  Sarkisian swore. Apparently hanging around a university has taught him a few new words. More creative than the ones usually to be heard around the sheriff’s department.

  “I take it this kills—” Oh hell, rotten choice of words. I forged ahead. “Tonight’s off, isn’t it?” He was going to be in for a long string of alibis, motives and background searching on poor Pete. And it would be Dr. Sarah Jacobs who would enjoy his company over an autopsy rather than me over a dinner. The image thus conjured up was less than appetizing. “Shall I cancel the talent show?” I asked, not sure whether to hope he said yes or no. Yes would mean a lot of upset people. No would mean a l
ot of reorganizing.

  “I’m not letting you off the hook yet,” he assured me. “I’ve got the team moving out the door. We’ll be over there soon.”

  I returned to the stage area where everyone had gathered. Several of the acts wanted to go home but I told them they’d have to stay until Sarkisian got there with the ghoul squad.

  Theresa edged next to me. “Would the sheriff mind if we send out for some food? That always keeps people quiet.”

  “Pizza at ten a.m.?” I asked.

  “I was thinking of croissants and cinnamon rolls and coffee,” she said. “There’s a bakery that would deliver. And caffeine and sugar always help when people are upset.”

  Which, I guessed, was what made chocolate such a perfect emergency food. And thinking of chocolate… “Add a dozen brownies to the order and I doubt the sheriff will object in the least.”

  She cast me an odd glance but then she had no reason to know brownies were Sarkisian’s favorite aid to thinking. She pulled a planner from her purse, checked the phone number section and within minutes had placed a staggering order for sugar-heavy munchies and pots of designer coffee drinks which, the bakery assured her in cheerful tones even I could hear standing next to her, would be on their way within minutes. I shouted the good news loudly enough to be heard over the excited gossiping and irritated grumblings and most people settled down to await the inevitable.

  “What are we going to do about the show?” Janowski placed himself in front of me, his expression frantic.

  “Wait and see,” I advised.

  “But we need to plan. What are we going to tell people?”

  I hesitated only a moment. “That if we have to, we’ll hold it in the stadium.” In many respects that would be easier than my earlier suggestion of the high school since people wouldn’t have to drive to it.

  The fairgrounds stadium was in fact an arena for rodeos and livestock shows and consisted of wooden bleachers open to the ground below rather than concrete stands with individual seats. Hey, we’re a really small county but at least we know how to husband our resources and make things do double—hell, quadruple—duty.