HotDogs

by Janice Bennett

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Hot Dogs

  ISBN 9781419919787

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Hot Dogs Copyright © 2009 Janice Bennett

  Edited by Helen Woodall

  Cover art by Dar Albert

  Electronic book Publication June 2009

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing Inc., 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  HOT DOGS

  Janice Bennett

  Dedication

  For Kyrie, Earnest, Misty, James, Nessie, Sally and all my future furry woofers, for their never-ending love and inspiration. And always for Rob, for putting up with me and the menagerie.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Boy Scout: Boy Scouts of America Corporation

  Dremel: Dremel Manufacturing Company

  Jeep: DaimlerChrysler AG Corporation

  Mazda: Toyo Kogyo Col, Ltd.

  Mercedes: DaimlerChrysler AG Corporation

  Muppets: Muppets, Inc.

  Mustang: Ford Motor Company

  Roomba: iRobot Corporation

  Sesame Street: Children’s Television Workshop

  Chapter One

  I left my Aunt Gerda’s house shortly after seven thirty on the morning of July second, prepared for the heavy fog that always covers the California central coast at this time of year. Instead the sun shone down on me with unprecedented brilliance. Typical. Fortunately I knew better than to trust the weather around here so I’d come prepared. At the first turnoff along the winding road that led from Upper River Gulch to the Merit County Fairgrounds, I lowered the canvas top on Freya, my ’65 Mustang, the better to enjoy the warm fresh air. And because I’m not completely crazy I tied a scarf over my mop of dark blonde permed curls.

  I’d covered most of the distance, first through the pines and redwoods and then through the sprawling farmland, when my cell phone blasted forth with Gilbert and Sullivan’s “A Policeman’s Lot is Not a Happy One”, warming my heart. Sarkisian. That’s Sheriff Owen Sarkisian to the uninitiated. The ringtone—set up especially for me by Jimmy the Geek, the sheriff department’s resident computer genius—always made me smile. Sarkisian and I had quoted—or at least tried to sing—several lines from the Pirates of Penzance at each other the night we’d met and we’d repeated that one in particular on many occasions since.

  I tapped the wireless receiver that hung over my ear. “Hey you.”

  “Hey beautiful,” came his deep-voiced response.

  I like to hear him say that. “Where are you?”

  “Almost back.”

  “You must have left early.” It was at least a four-hour drive from the university where he was knocking himself out to get his master’s degree in psychology while still maintaining his job as sheriff of Merit County.

  “Wanted to see you before I checked in with the department. The week surrounding the Fourth of July is always crazy for us.”

  “Tell me about it,” I sighed.

  His rumbling chuckle sounded. “Ready for the big kick-off?”

  I guided Freya around the curve that took me out of the sprawling fields of beans and strawberries and several varieties of lettuce and into acres of berry vines strung on wire and pipe supports. “On my way there now. I’m meeting the committee for the talent show and parade organization at the fairgrounds in about five minutes.” I reached a stop sign, turned and increased my speed as I headed toward the board announcing the Livestock Gate where I had an appointment in the parking lot to inspect a storage shed. Let’s just say my job is more interesting than glamorous.

  “That puts me about fifteen minutes away from you.” He sounded pleased. “And here comes the freeway exit.”

  “How’d your conference go with your professor last night?” I slowed to turn in through the open gate, bumped along the gravel road that led around the arena where, like every year, we’d hold the fireworks show on the night of the Fourth.

  “All’s well that ends well,” he assured me solemnly.

  “Stay out of Shakespeare,” I begged. I preferred the light nonsense of Gilbert and Sullivan. “Looks like I’m not the first to arrive. In fact…” My voice trailed off as I took in the collection of people and vehicles already clustered a short distance from the line of small buildings where the fairgrounds kept the maintenance equipment, decorations and anything else for which they currently didn’t have a need. “You might be able to see me and report to work at the same time.”

  “What’s up, Annike?” Suddenly he was all business.

  “The official Jeep is here. So that means John Goulding must be around. And—oh damn. That’s Sarah’s car.” Sarah Jacobs was not only the doctor for most of the inhabitants of Upper River Gulch, she was also medical examiner for the county.

  “Just those two?”

  I could hear the frown in his voice. “Nope. Looks like the whole forensics team is here in force.”

  “So what the hell is going on?” he muttered.

  “You’ll probably find out before I do,” I assured him.

  “Right. See you in a few minutes.” The connection went silent.

  A woman in the uniform of a deputy sheriff broke away from the small crowd of people and strode purposefully toward me—not to head me off but to talk. My car is too well-known and my connection with the sheriff’s department is of very long standing. My late husband was sheriff until he was killed during a drug bust almost nine years ago. I’m currently not-quite-engaged to the present sheriff—Owen Sarkisian—but that’s one of those long stories. I intended to take the matter up with him as soon as he recovered from his too-long drive. I’m also a consultant to the department on financial matters because, no matter how hard I try to live it down, I’m still a CPA even though I’m no longer employed as such. Now, for my sins, I run an event-coordinating business. Annike McKinley, Events Unlimited. That’s me.

  It was a job—the county’s gala Fourth of July celebration—that brought me out here this morning. The Board of Supervisors, in an attempt to eclipse a scandal over last year’s event, had hired my one-woman company to stage a bigger and better celebration. Words like that always boded trouble.

  And from the looks of things it appeared that trouble had gotten here before me.

  I fought back a craven impulse to keep driving, possibly all the way to San Francisco, but curbed it. I wanted to see Sarkisian. I slowed to a stop.

  Becky Deschler, slim, athletic, youthful—everything I’m not, in fact—leaned both hands on the door frame. Her softly olive complexion gl
owed with her excitement. “Hey Annike. You wouldn’t believe what we’ve got here.”

  More likely I wouldn’t want to believe.

  I forced a smile. “Just assure me whatever it is won’t cancel the talent show or I’m going to have an awful lot of people mad at me.” The talent show was one of my contributions to the Fourth of July Holiday Spectacular and the committee—and the whole community—had greeted the suggestion with delight. If I now had to cancel it I was never going to hear the end of it.

  Becky cast an uncertain glance in the direction of the storage sheds where I could see Salvador Ramirez, head of the ghoul squad, arguing with Deputy John Goulding. They made quite a picture, Ramirez tall, slim and dark and John short, heavy and mostly bald. I liked them both although I’ve always suspected Ramirez considers me more of a nuisance than an asset to the sheriff department’s investigations.

  After several moments of observing the heated discussion, Becky shook her head. “We need Sarkisian. When will he be back?”

  It was a measure of something—though I’m not sure what—that the department turned to me to discover their sheriff’s whereabouts and plans.

  “He should be here any minute now. He—” I hesitated. “He wanted to talk to the parade committee before heading over to the office.”

  Becky grinned. I wasn’t fooling anyone. “And it’s just an added bonus you happened to be coming here?”

  “Where events are taking place, that’s where you’ll find me,” came my flippant response.

  “And where murders have taken place, that’s where we need Sarkisian.” Becky sighed. “John’s great, don’t get me wrong but he’s a bit excitable. Sarkisian always takes care of everything in such a capable manner.”

  I knew what she meant. There was something very solid and dependable about our sheriff. When he eventually earned his doctorate and became a psychologist for both the sheriff’s department and the county’s police departments he’d be sorely missed from his present role. Not that he wouldn’t be helping with investigations, I felt sure. I just hoped it would keep him out of the direct line of gunfire and knife thrusts and car chases and all the rest of the nightmares to which law enforcement officers are subjected.

  “Murder?” I asked, dragging my thoughts from Sarkisian and focusing on the essential point. If it were anything other than gang or drug related it might ruin more than the talent show. I could see the fireworks display as well going up in smoke—so to speak.

  “Remember the fuss last year when the Fourth’s committee chairman ran off with all the funds?”

  “Yeah.” It had created a huge scandal. The guy—Lee Wessex, that was his name—had cleaned out not only the gate proceeds but the sizable donations all intended for Merit County First, the charity organization that oversaw the distribution of funds to local groups and agencies that couldn’t afford huge fund-raising events or advertising. It’s a very well respected group with representatives of each of the benefiting charities on the board. They all help out, thereby helping each other and themselves. As a county, we’re proud of what they do.

  But that wasn’t all Lee Wessex had done. He’d also cleaned out his bank account, stolen his wife’s jewelry and emptied the client accounts from the investment firm in which he’d been one of two partners. A clean haul and no one knew where he had disappeared to. His car had been found in long-term parking at San Jose Airport—the nearest one to us—but no tickets had been issued in his name to any destination.

  “Well he didn’t get a chance to run very far. He ended up in that storage building.” She nodded to the one in front of which the people milled.

  I let that sink in for a moment. “You mean he’s been dead for a whole year?” I guess that explained the lack of ticket. But not how his car got to the airport.

  Becky nodded, enjoying the situation. Yup, she fitted right in with the rest of the ghoul squad. All really nice people, don’t get me wrong. They just tended to see crimes, and especially murder, as a puzzle to be solved rather than a human tragedy. Sarkisian was different. He still enjoyed the puzzle aspect but he thought in terms of victims and their loved ones.

  Apparently some of the others had noted my arrival. John and Ramirez had abandoned their argument and bore down on me. Becky stepped aside to let them have their turn.

  “When is Sarkisian getting back?” John Goulding demanded by way of greeting.

  Typical. “I’m fine, thanks, John. How are you?” I offered him my most brilliant smile.

  Ramirez snorted. It might have been in amusement. It might have been in exasperation at my facetiousness. With him one can never be sure.

  John simply ignored my comment. “Isn’t he due back sometime today?”

  I opened Freya’s door, setting off the creaking the poor old girl had developed of late. The familiar pang of “where is our next dollar coming from” struck me. If this event got cancelled I wouldn’t be able to pay for the body work Freya needed, which meant she’d be in for a bad case of creeping rust in the near future. Life—and weather—can be tough on a car—or anything else that’s over forty years old. I should know. I’m forty myself.

  “Why don’t you wait for him?” I suggested. “I’m out here to keep an appointment.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been hearing all about it. Signups and auditions for this talent show.” John made a face. “Think you’ll get many acts?”

  Ramirez turned a patronizing eye on him. “Most people are proud of the fact they kept up their piano or guitar lessons.”

  “Maybe. But most people didn’t keep them up. And those are the ones who always turn out for these affairs. You take my advice,” he told me. “Cancel it before you perpetrate a public nuisance.”

  I grinned. “Hey, perpetrating public nuisances is my job, remember?”

  Ramirez snorted again. He’d considered me a nuisance from the day I’d found a body in my aunt’s study more than a year and a half ago. I patted him on the shoulder and his lips twitched in a sheepish smile.

  I started toward the knot of people where I could see the Fourth of July Committee chairman, Ivan Janowski, talking to Brian Quantrell, a paramedic and this year’s parade Grand Marshal, thanks to his having rescued two twelve-year-old boys from a burning building, accompanied by massive media coverage, at the time the marshal was being selected. Quantrell had tried to decline the honor, maintaining the boys had set the fire themselves before becoming trapped in the building, but that didn’t matter to the committee. He was still the public hero of the day. Our county is so small there aren’t many chances for anyone to be a public hero, so we make the most of one when we can. Quantrell’s youth and undeniable tall-dark-and-handsome looks wouldn’t hurt the parade’s image either.

  “It’s been a whole damn year,” Ivan Janowski proclaimed, his voice rising in irritation as I neared. “They can’t possibly declare the whole fairgrounds a crime scene. I’ll take it up with the other county supervisors if I have to.” He rarely let slip the chance to remind everyone of his status as one of those supervisors. It made me glad I hadn’t voted for him.

  “Only this area, I should imagine,” came Brian Quantrell’s much calmer tones. “So many cars will have come through here that any evidence that might still be around will be badly contaminated.”

  “So suddenly you’re a forensics expert?” Janowski demanded.

  Quantrell grinned. “Just repeating what Ramirez and John were arguing about. You should try listening to people sometime. It’s amazing what you can learn. Hey Pete,” he called as the short chunky figure of Pete Norton, groundskeeper for the fairgrounds, came out from behind the storage building with Roberta Dominguez, another of the forensics team.

  Pete Norton’s rounded jaw set. “I don’t know anything more now than I did five minutes ago. When they make an official ruling they’ll let us all know.”

  “But you’re groundskeeper,” Janowski protested as the man came closer. “Can’t you make them listen to reason?”

  Pete h
alted, his hands thrust in the pockets of his navy work pants. “Oh, they’re being more than reasonable. Downright tolerant. They haven’t sent you away yet, have they?”

  Janowski turned from him, which brought him face to face with me. He glowered although he also gave me a short nod of acknowledgment. “Ms. Mckinley. I suppose they’ve told you what we found when we unlocked that damn storage shed this morning?”

  “A whole lot of trouble?”

  At that some of the rancor left his face. “Yeah. I just hope they let us use some of the decorations. If not—” He shook his head. “The county can’t afford to buy more.”

  It was amazing what could be done with several rolls of crepe paper and a few bags of blow-your-own balloons, none of which cost much but I refrained from pointing that out. “So he was killed—or at least put in there—after the decorations had been put away.” Which meant he could have died at any time between then and now.

  Janowski shrugged. “He was way in the back, covered by a tarp and a ton of buntings. But I suppose whoever put him in there could have covered him up.” He sounded uncertain.

  Pete shook his head. “Then someone would have had to get hold of a key. Everything looks pretty much the way we left it when we shoved things in there and locked up on the fifth last year.”

  Janowski turned to stare at him. “You mean you wouldn’t have noticed that odd bundle just lying there? You’d just have thrown things on top of him?”

  Pete shrugged. “The committee members were helping. I imagine nobody gave a large bundle in there a second thought.”

  What a burial, to have your body completely unnoticed and covered in seasonal decorations. A shiver raced along my spine.

  Janowski shook his head. “This is all such a mess. I wish we hadn’t discovered Wessex’s body until after the Fourth.”