“I’ve got the SCOURGEs coming. Can I tag along for the questioning?”
“When has my saying ‘no’ ever stopped you?”
“I love a man who understands me,” I assured him.
He took a step back toward me only to stumble over Mazda who stood right between us, his doggy stare fixed upward on me. I scooped the little guy up to keep him safe and was again amazed at how hefty such a small dog could be.
“Now,” Sarkisian began, that gleam in his eyes that promised so much, “if I can just get you to—”
“Sheriff?” Connie Wessex peered around the curtain. “There you are.” She fluttered her unnaturally long lashes at him. She’s even older than I am but she looks incredible. And it’s not all due to her designer clothes and perfectly styled hair—the doing of Sue Hinkel, Upper River Gulch’s genius salon artist. She’s just one of those women who exude sex appeal without even trying.
“What’s going to happen now?” she asked. “I’ll have to make funeral arrangements and…” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “It’s going to be ghastly, isn’t it, once the newshounds get hold of this?”
“We’ll deal with that when it happens,” he assured her, his voice calm and soothing. “Right now I need you to look at something for me.” He drew out the plastic bag with the sheet of paper that had been in Wessex’s pocket.
I thought he’d shown it to her in the parking lot when we’d left them together. Apparently he’d been saving it. So why wait until now, I wondered? It probably had something to do with the way he won the confidence of his suspects so he could slip in something they weren’t expecting at an appropriate moment. I didn’t fully understand how it worked, only that it did.
Connie stared at the sheet. Even by the uncertain light I would swear her face turned pale.
Chapter Five
Very slowly, Connie Wessex shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’ve never seen that one.”
Sarkisian said nothing, merely waiting with his eyebrows raised and that slight encouraging smile on his face that seemed to assure his victims he’d believe anything they cared to tell him. It seldom failed to make them spill far more secrets than seemed possible. When he finally received his doctorate in psychology he was going to be very, very good at his new job.
For a long moment their gazes held then Connie looked down. “He liked to make people nervous,” she said at last. “I have no idea who this one was for.”
“You mean he wrote it?” Sarkisian almost managed to keep the surprise from his expression.
She nodded. “He’d leave them for anyone who annoyed him. It didn’t matter that he rarely knew anything about the person. Everyone has some sort of secret they’re terrified will be discovered. He had a cruel sense of humor.”
“How did you find out what he was doing? Did he ever give you one of these?”
Dark color surged up her neck and across her face. She glanced at Mazda who panted happily in my arms then back to Sarkisian. “I don’t know anyone he didn’t leave one for at some time or other.”
He nodded, his expression one of sympathetic understanding. “And yours probably didn’t mean any more than the rest of them did.”
“Of course they didn’t. None of them ever did.”
Sarkisian’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “They?”
She hesitated then shrugged. “The first came through the mail and could have been sent by anyone. The second—that one showed up in the middle of the dining room table. Someone could have slipped into the house. But the third one he left that on my pillow and I caught him leaving the room. When I confronted him he just laughed and said if I didn’t have any secrets then I wouldn’t have any reason to be upset.”
“And did you have any secrets?”
“I— Of course not. At least nothing that matters to anyone but me. It’s not like I’ve done anything illegal. I’ve never hurt anyone or anything like that. I never—” She broke off, apparently realizing at last she was talking too much.
“That’s the way it is with most people,” Sarkisian agreed. “Well thank you for clearing that up for me. You’ve been a great help.”
“I— Yes, of course.” She gave him a tentative smile and hurried away into the throng of people who hovered around the door.
“Hey, Annike,” a familiar woman’s voice shouted from somewhere outside. “Are you hiding in there?”
“Reinforcements at last,” I exclaimed in relief. Even if I weren’t anxious about getting volunteers to take over out here, I‘d have been delighted to welcome Faith Alvarez. She’s one of those rare individuals who is as efficient as she is good-hearted.
I could just see the top of her gray curls. Her husband Paul would be somewhere nearby since he was as willing to pitch in and help with any mess as was his wife. I’d met them just over a year ago during a rather harrowing Easter fete I was staging at the yacht club where they were members. They had since moved to Upper River Gulch and become SCOURGE members, adding a much needed note of sanity to that notably insane group. I thrust Mazda into Sarkisian’s arms and all but ran to greet them with open arms. Any time they’re helping I know things will get done properly.
“Am I glad to see you,” I exclaimed, hugging them both at the same time.
“And we’re just the vanguard,” Paul assured me with his normal cheerfulness. “Sue and Neil are coming in a few minutes. They’re just stopping by the Still to make sure that new batch of blueberry liqueur is coming along all right.”
Sue—that’s Sue Hinkel of salon fame—is engaged to Neil Cartwright, an ex-air force pilot who has taken over the management of the Still—more properly Brandywine Distillery—since the death of his Uncle Hugh last October. He’s been a great addition to Upper River Gulch and Sue has seen to it he takes part in everything while he’s been recovering from losing his leg when his plane was shot down. She’s been as good for him as she’s been for the whole town. I make cracks about the SCOURGEs but I love every eccentric one of them dearly.
“Give me about five minutes to get the committee settled then you can start sending the talent to the stage,” I told them.
Faith grinned. “Paperwork in hand?”
I nodded. “I’ll stand by to receive.” When Sue and Neil got here I’d have them take over that job, leaving me free to deal with the next tasks.
With alacrity Lizzie and Vanderveer handed over their places at the tables to Faith and Paul. Sure in the knowledge that those two would keep everything under control I herded the two committee members—plus Lizzie’s dogs—toward the stage. Only Roomba lingered with the crowd, her long pointy nose fixed to the ground as she raced around fulfilling her function of vacuuming up any stray scraps of food that might dirty the ground.
I gave the gathering horde of people one last uncertain look. I’d figured the show could run for approximately two hours, plus intermissions, before the public called it quits and either stormed the stage in protest or simply decamped from the auditorium. It was beginning to look as if we could pick and choose our acts. The idea of sufficient talent lifted my spirits which had sunk with the discovery of Lee Wessex’s body.
Over the hubbub of voices I heard Paul’s calm resonant tones. “No, you parade entrants just need to leave your photos and forms. We’ll post the marching order and your assigned staging area on the internet site by three p.m. No, no need to call us. Just go to the site. The address is right there. No, just under your finger.”
I closed my eyes, saying a prayer of thanks for Paul Alvarez and the calming effect he had on people. There was even a slight chance we’d have the marching order ready by then. We had set noon as the cut-off time for the forms to be turned in since they’d been accepting them at both the county courthouse in Meritville and on the website for the last two weeks. Janowski—or rather his assistant Theresa—had brought with them an impressively large stack, considering how small our county is. Janowski—or more likely Theresa—was supposed to have sorted the papers by the type of group and I
hoped she had. Once I got the talent show hopefuls under the watchful eye of Sue and Neil I’d have to retire to a semi-quiet corner and do some serious parade management.
“No,” I heard Faith’s voice rising in her tones of command. “The auditions will continue this evening for those who have to work today. We won’t be able to announce which acts have been accepted until everyone has had a chance to perform for the committee.”
I heard numerous complaints but left them to Faith. I knew from experience she was more than capable of dealing with a rebellious crowd.
“We’ll never get through all these people.” Janowski stood at the edge of the stage, glaring at me as if this were my fault.
I closed my eyes briefly. “That’s why I told the committee we should start last weekend.”
If possible he glared even harder. “We’re busy people with important jobs. We didn’t have the time to waste on days and days of this.”
“Well now you only have one,” I assured him and shooed him back toward the front row of seats.
Sarkisian stood at the edge of the stage, still holding the plastic bag containing Lee Wessex’s note. Theresa, who had followed Janowski, paused to cast it an uncertain glance. She hadn’t been with us when Sarkisian showed it to the others, I remembered suddenly. And Janowski had said the sheriff should ask her about it.
“Ms. delGuardia?” With a slight gesture of his head, the sheriff called her over. She went with obvious reluctance.
Edward Vanderveer followed her. “This won’t take long, will it, Sheriff? We’ve got to get these tryouts started.”
“No, not if you tell me what I need to know,” Sarkisian countered.
Vanderveer stiffened. “I’m sure I don’t know anything that might help.” He eyed the plastic bag. “What is that?”
Sarkisian told them, explaining where it had been found.
Theresa peered at it and the color drained from her face. “Not another one,” she breathed and tears started to her eyes.
“You’ve seen others?” Sarkisian kept his tone gentle, encouraging.
She nodded. “On Mr. Vanderveer’s desk.” She glanced at him. “You must remember.”
Vanderveer glared at the current letter. “I certainly do.”
“And now—I mean—oh I don’t know what I mean. It just seems so terrible that someone gave one to Mr. Wessex too. Or,” and her eyes widened, “someone knew what…what a horrible thing he was doing and tried to stop him by letting him know they knew?”
“We’ll definitely be looking into it. And you received one of these, Mr. Vanderveer?”
He nodded. “Exactly the same. It’s not the sort of thing you forget. I mean it had to be a joke or a stab in the dark or something like that but still—” His mouth tightened. “It’s not pleasant.”
So apparently all was not well in the partnership even before Wessex stole all that money. Wessex had left Vanderveer one of his notes—but was there a reason for it? Had Vanderveer been up to something? Or had it just been intended to distress? Knowing Sarkisian, he’d find out.
“Theresa,” bellowed Janowski.
Theresa looked up at the sheriff then away again. “Is that all?”
“Go ahead. And thank you for your help.”
She gave him an uncertain smile and hurried to take a position at Janowski’s side.
Edward Vanderveer watched her go, frowning. “This has been really hard on the poor woman. She absolutely hero-worshipped Lee Wessex. To discover he was a thief almost destroyed her. I’m glad she found a job that’s demanding enough to keep her occupied. And,” he added ruefully, “I gather she’s transferred that worship to her new boss. Janowski isn’t too pleased but at least his wife doesn’t seem to mind.”
“Did Connie Wessex?” Sarkisian asked.
Vanderveer snorted. “Connie jealous of someone as plain as Theresa delGuardia? I doubt Connie was aware of the woman as anything other than a piece of office equipment. No, Connie was…too busy to pay attention to Theresa’s hero worship.”
Too busy doing what, I wondered? Sarkisian’s impassive expression gave nothing away but I bet he was registering the same question.
Footsteps sounded on the creaking floorboards and a group of teenage girls joined us. “Do we just go out on the stage?” one of them asked.
Vanderveer frowned at their clothes, which varied from extremely short cutoff jeans to a knotted sarong barely covering an almost-not-there bathing suit. “Is that what you intend to wear if you get into the show? And what,” he added with growing disapproval, “do you do?”
“We’re a band,” the girl said despite the complete lack of any supporting evidence. They didn’t have so much as a single musical instrument between them.
Another of the girls, whose short dark hair stood out in surprisingly becoming spikes, looked dismayed. “No one said we had to come in costume. You can see that on the audition DVD we brought.” She handed it over along with their registration form.
Audition DVD? That hadn’t occurred to me. I experienced a moment of pure panic before I remembered my laptop came equipped with a player. We’d get through this, I kept telling myself. We’d survive.
Theresa hurried over. “Mr. Janowski wants to know what the holdup is.”
I explained the situation and Theresa took charge of the disc. “I suppose the committee can watch it if there’s a lull,” she said dubiously.
“If you get in,” Vanderveer emphasized the word a little more than necessary, “we’ll need you in full costume tomorrow with your instruments so we can check lighting and sound.”
“Cool,” the apparent leader said. “What time?”
“We’ll post it on the website by nine o’clock tonight,” I assured her. And by “we” I meant “me”. I’d been in this business too long now—a bit over a year and a half—to have any illusions left. Unless I fobbed the job off onto Faith and Paul. That idea appealed.
The next act, four senior citizens doing a barbershop quartet, presented themselves amid much good humor. I accepted their paperwork and tried to hand it to Theresa but Vanderveer commandeered her services to take notes while he checked out the lighting and sound equipment. That appeared to be a very uneasy pairing, I noted, watching them as they made their way up the steps to the lighting loft.
I caught Sarkisian’s hand for a brief moment then headed into the lion’s den—I mean carried the application to the committee.
The barbershop quartet didn’t assail us with “Sweet Adeline”. They’d come up with an original—and absolutely hilarious—version of a current popular song which, in my opinion, richly deserved the send-up. They were voted an immediate spot in the show—no way were we going to let them get bumped—and I jotted down a note to myself to make sure they were put in a place where they could save things if necessary. They waited while Ed Vanderveer tested a few lights then trooped off as happy as clams.
Sue Hinkel, as beautiful as always with her thick auburn hair arranged in curls about her shoulders, walked in with Neil Cartwright, who was now able to get around on his prosthetic with barely a limp. He waved a greeting, grinning, which just showed he still had a lot to learn about events like this. I welcomed them with relief.
“Faith told us about the body,” Neil said as he settled on the folding chair we hastily set for him in the wings.
“We’ll expect updates whenever Sarkisian tells you anything,” Sue added.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I warned. I told Neil to collect the registration forms as they arrived. Sue offered to run them down to the committee one at a time if Neil would use his deep voice to announce the names. I left them arguing amicably about how they would perform their temporary jobs and joined the others in the seats to make sure all ran smoothly there.
The next act—duly announced in Neil’s sonorous tones—was a middle-aged woman who settled herself at the auditorium’s piano. She could have been a professional. She launched into a hauntingly beautiful medley of Andrew Lloyd Webber
songs and like the barbershop quartet received an immediate pass into the show. Vanderveer signaled a thumbs-up and we let her leave. I began to have real hopes for this event.
Then came a group of six middle-aged men in baseball shirts singing “You’ve Got to Have Heart” from Damn Yankees. They didn’t have heart and “damn” was muttered far too often among the committee members to bode well for their chances. Still I had to give them credit for trying.
The next two groups were both made up of high schoolers who had formed their own bands. Nothing obscene, nothing too loud. I’d heard worse. The panelists scored them, Ed Vanderveer tried to light them and they were dismissed.
They were replaced by a little girl’s ballet class doing something from Swan Lake. Actually, aside from the little swans heading off in the wrong direction at one point and bumping into each other at another and someone from the sidelines quacking in a loud voice, it wasn’t bad. The panelists seemed to feel that children ought to be encouraged. Fine by me.
Next came a karate class performing katas to music. Some of them were startlingly good. Some, not surprisingly, filled out a back row. Then came a punk band followed by a rap group and a pair of break-dancers. I hadn’t realized that was still in fashion but hey, I don’t keep up on what’s current. I snuck out during a magic act to check on Paul and Faith and see if the line was slowing down any. I needed to get started on the parade lineup.
As I neared the door, Brian Quantrell, now in his paramedic’s uniform, emerged from the nether regions with one of the poodles under his arm. “Someone is going to break their neck tripping over these damn dogs. They’re all over the place. Hey, Lizzie,” he shouted over the noise of chairs being rearranged on the stage. “Get over here and keep a better eye on these beasts, will you?”
“I am watching them,” Lizzie shouted back. Footsteps sounded and she appeared in the wings. “Roomba’s checking out the seats along with a few of the others. How did you get hold of Ogden? He was curled up with Mazda. At least he was a few minutes ago.”
HotDogs Page 6
