HotDogs

by Janice Bennett

  I wondered if I could sneak a couple of pieces out to Sarkisian. Brownies were his preferred food for thought when he was working but I doubted he was feeling particularly picky at the moment. He must have eaten breakfast at a ridiculously early hour before beginning his long drive.

  Theresa nodded. “That won’t be a problem. I’ll have Pete Norton set up one of the rooms for the food and have someone guard the door.”

  With the efficiency I was beginning to suspect was her normal way of doing everything she jotted down a few notes in the pad then whipped out her cell phone and strode toward the rear of the auditorium where it would be quiet enough for her to place her call. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had Janowski’s favorite pizza parlor in her phone’s directory.

  Janowski watched her retreat, his mood mellowing. “Very capable woman,” he told me. “Damn good at her job.”

  “She seems to be taking the murder of her old boss fairly well,” I said, curious to know what Janowski would say about that.

  He shook his head. “No she isn’t. She keeps her feelings bottled up all the time. You have to know her pretty well to be able to figure them out. She’s upset. Distressed in fact.” He fell silent for a moment. “She was devastated when it came out Wessex had been a thief. She refused to believe it at first but there was too much evidence against him. She’d hero-worshipped him, you know.”

  So he’d already told me. “And now,” I reminded him, “she’s transferred a bit of that to you.”

  Janowski’s brow creased. “It’s very flattering of course but it’s actually a relief to hear her talking the last couple of weeks about how brave Brian Quantrell was to save those two kids the way he did.” He cast me a sheepish glance. “You have no idea how hard it can be to live up to her image of you.”

  Neil yelled at us again and I realized four acts waited their turns, watching us with growing impatience. I shooed Janowski back to his seat, collected the pile of parade entries we already had and set to work. Theresa, bless her heart, had sorted these by category as promised, leaving me to add only the new ones who had arrived this morning.

  Lunch duly arrived. We ate while watching the tryouts that had finally declined to the occasional group trickling in. We’d have another rush at seven tonight when those who worked showed up.

  Sarkisian unfortunately was nowhere to be seen. Nor were Becky Deschler and John Goulding for that matter. I couldn’t help but wonder what they were doing—and if they were anywhere nearer to learning the truth about what happened a year ago. If Sarkisian could clean up this mess today then he might have more time to spare for me before he had to head back to the university. I believe I’ve mentioned I’m an inveterate dreamer.

  During the increasingly long breaks we finished off a lot of organizing. Faith and Paul, during their own quiet spells, had hit upon the notion of numbering the entries in each category then drawing numbers from a bowl to determine marching order. “That way,” Paul told us happily from his place on the edge of the stage, “no one can complain anyone else got preferential treatment.”

  “Oh, give them a chance,” chimed in Sue.

  “Never underestimate the ability of people to find something to gripe about,” added Neil, the best example of non-griping I’d ever met.

  “We could keep score on what they gripe about,” Paul suggested. “We—” He broke off as a car door slammed somewhere outside and a volley of barking disrupted our momentary peace.

  “Damn. Lizzie’s back,” muttered Vanderveer. He pushed out of the seat he’d taken and mounted the steps to the stage. “Lizzie Mobley, you get those damn dogs under control or get them out of here.”

  The angry voices of Lizzie and Vanderveer arguing just inside the stage door carried to us but fortunately not their actual words. There could be no doubting the rise in their level of animosity though.

  “Take it outside,” bellowed Janowski. “We want some peace in here.”

  I did at least. I was typing up the final marching order and determining the staging areas for each group. I wanted them posted on the internet site as soon as possible to avoid people telephoning about it.

  The volume of the arguing lowered then faded. Apparently they were doing as ordered. Janowski looked a trifle surprised at his success.

  “Now for the lineup for the talent show,” Janowski decided. “In order of their quality, I think, with the best last.”

  Paul groaned. “You’ll risk losing the audience early on.”

  “He’s right,” agreed his wife. “The best idea is to scatter them throughout the show.”

  “And we should organize them for maximum diversity,” I said quickly as I saw Janowski open his mouth. “Divide them into types, then draw them from bowls for order.”

  “That way,” Sue murmured, “everyone will have equal cause for complaint.”

  The clicking of little toenails sounded from the stage and I looked up to see Roomba making her appointed rounds vacuuming up any crumbs—or anything else—that might have fallen since her last foray. Lizzie followed with three of the poodles on leashes and the three-legged Mazda under her arm. “He’s making such a fuss,” she complained though obviously not talking about any of her dogs. “You’d think someone had put Vanderveer in charge of everything instead of you, Ivan.” She smiled sweetly at Janowski.

  What was she up to, I wondered? Her comments about Janowski earlier had been far from sweet.

  A sudden stillness seemed to grip those in the auditorium and I didn’t have to look up to know Sarkisian had returned. At last. I’ve developed a sixth sense concerning that man. I could only wish we weren’t both working. It had been too long since we’d been able to spend any time together. Or even just look at each other for more than a few seconds.

  He looked around, met my gaze with a rueful smile then addressed the group as a whole. “Where is Mr. Vanderveer?”

  “Outside sulking,” Lizzie declared. “Didn’t you see him on your way in?”

  Sarkisian refrained from pointing out that if he’d seen him he wouldn’t have had to ask. His silence said it for him. “If he comes in,” he said at last, “tell him I’m looking for him?”

  “That’s bound to make his day,” I said.

  “Make whose day?” Vanderveer himself emerged onto the stage from the wings only to stop as he neared the footlights. “Why are you all staring at me?”

  Sarkisian offered up his most affable smile which normally puts everyone at ease. “Could I have a word with you?”

  Vanderveer spread his arms. “Of course, Sheriff. Unlike some people I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “Except your good manners,” Lizzie muttered a shade too loudly. “You keep those pretty well hidden.”

  Janowski snorted and tried to turn it into a cough.

  Vanderveer’s jaw tensed but he pointedly ignored the jibes. He headed to the side of the stage where steps led up from the auditorium floor. Sarkisian mounted them and he and Vanderveer disappeared into the wings, just out of earshot.

  “Wonder what that’s about,” Janowski mused.

  “We could listen,” suggested Lizzie then her eyes narrowed as she looked beyond my shoulder. “Or maybe we don’t have to.”

  I turned and there was Connie Wessex now in a long black dress holding a cello. She didn’t look happy. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Connie Wessex. I’ll bet the sheriff was just talking to her.”

  Very probably. Connie had the look of someone just realizing she’d revealed more than she’d intended. It usually took people a minimum of ten minutes to catch on to the fact that Sarkisian’s charm had led them into deep water, frequently of the scalding variety. Some never figured it out.

  “What could she have told him about Vanderveer?” I asked.

  Lizzie gave me a knowing smile. “Probably that she was having an affair with him right before her husband disappeared.”

  My eyebrows rose. “But Vanderveer was her husband’s business partner.” Not to me
ntion the fact Vanderveer had just told us she’d been having an affair with Brian Quantrell. And both Quantrell and Lizzie had already said she’d been having one with Ivan Janowski. All at the same time or in rapid succession, I wondered? Or did those affairs only exist in the gossipers’ minds?

  “According to Theresa—who was their secretary, remember—Lee Wessex had been talking for months about leaving his wife,” Janowski told me. “She admitted as much last year when he disappeared. She blamed Connie’s affairs for his wanting to end the marriage.”

  Affairs. In the plural. Okay, apparently they had been real. Had one of her lovers killed him? It would have to have been someone who didn’t know he was planning on leaving her anyway.

  “Why didn’t Wessex just leave?” I asked.

  “The money was all hers,” Lizzie told me. “If he left he wouldn’t have had anything. So he stole everything he could get his hands on and was heading out.”

  “Now there’s a thought,” Janowski mused. “Think Connie killed him to get it all back? She’s been complaining all year about not having some of the jewelry that had belonged to her mother and grandmother.”

  “Yes, poor dear.” Lizzie’s lip curled. “She’s had to buy new diamonds and rubies, hasn’t she? I bet she complained all the way to the jewelry store.”

  I glanced at Lizzie. She wore a gaudy bead necklace and flashy earrings but they were costume jewelry, nothing expensive.

  Lizzie caught my look and sniffed. “I don’t waste money on jewels,” she said. “I use it to take care of my dogs. And if there’s any left over I give it to Merit County First. And I certainly didn’t kill Lee Wessex for the money or the charities would be in better shape.”

  But might she have killed him in fury over his hitting her beloved Mazda? If she had though, what did she do with the money? Over the course of the intervening year it had never turned up. If Wessex had never managed to escape with it, where had it gone?

  My gaze strayed back to the stage where Connie had now been joined by two men and another woman, all in evening dress, two with violins and one with a viola. They seated themselves on chairs Pete Norton produced and began warming up without the frequent screeches usually associated with string instruments. They also didn’t have musical scores which implied they’d done a lot of practicing.

  The other woman in the group wore a simple gold-toned chain. Connie wore a beautiful triple strand of large cultured pearls with more hanging from her ears. Old family money, Janowski had said and jewelry she had inherited. If she had caught on that her husband had stolen her money and jewels and was leaving her, might she have intercepted him and killed him in a fury? But then what would she have done with everything he’d stolen? She could hardly tell the world he had taken her jewels and then be seen wearing them.

  Or course she could always produce the pieces one by one saying she’d had copies made of her favorites.

  The string quartet progressed from scales to Mozart. They were amazingly good, the cello superb. Could anyone who played like that be a murderer? I didn’t want to believe it but then Sarkisian tells me I’m too sentimental, especially where art and music are concerned. And chocolate of course.

  Connie seemed to be a woman who demanded perfection. Both her playing and her appearance hinted at that. She might not have been able to bear the stigma of having her husband rob her—not to mention everyone else—in order to leave her.

  Chapter Seven

  It was almost nine o’clock before we finally called it quits for the night. I was hungry and grouchy, a matter that wasn’t helped any by the fact that even though I could now go home, Sarkisian couldn’t. I had a few choice swearwords for dedicated law enforcement officers but he knew I wouldn’t have him any other way. But just this once I’d have liked him to whisk me off to a candlelit dinner with white linens and flowers on the table and something succulent accompanied by a vintage wine. What I was likely to get would be a bowl of cereal in a house empty of all except seven cats and my parakeet—hopefully not sharing a room.

  My beloved Aunt Gerda, who had taken me in over a year and a half ago when I quit my accounting job and had found myself and my parakeet homeless, had gone to San Francisco to see a play with Charlie Fallon and I didn’t expect them back until sometime the next day. I only had myself to blame for that and I couldn’t be happier about it—except when I could use a little of her wonderful cooking and even more wonderful sympathy. It had been through that disastrous Easter fete at the yacht club that she’d met Charlie. I suspected they might marry once I was safely off her hands and firmly in Sarkisian’s. I hoped so at least. Aunt Gerda had grown accustomed to having someone around her home and her cats appreciated the extra lap. They’d all be lonely when I moved out. Or at the rate I was going that might be a great big “if”. Sarkisian was dragging his feet on the way to the altar.

  After bidding Sarkisian a lingering farewell in the parking lot I drove along the winding road that led from the fairgrounds through farming fields, over the river and finally onto Last Gasp Hill, one of the two main roads that intersect in Upper River Gulch. A few minutes more took me up the steep road beneath the overhanging pines and redwoods and through the wrought-iron gate—always open—that marked the beginning of my aunt’s driveway.

  I was surprised to spot lights through the trees as I wound my way up the gravel toward the house. Yes, lots of lights. And there was Charlie’s car—not the van he used to transport food for the café he now owns in Upper River Gulch but the small sporty model he uses for fun. What brought them home a day early? Frowning, I fumbled in the sunshade for the garage door opener, clicked it then pulled into my parking place still labeled with the wood-burned sign reading “Annike and Freya” and switched off the ignition.

  As soon as I exited the garage—thereby triggering the safety lamp that illuminated the twenty redwood steps leading up to the house that perched above the garage—a large body hurtled out of the darkness and slammed into my legs. From the amount of drool now soaking my jeans I had no trouble identifying my attacker as Boondoggle, the bloodhound mix that had adopted Sarkisian last Halloween. He stayed with us whenever Sarkisian was away at school which was becoming distressingly more often as he’d completed all the course work that could be done on-line and now had to appear more often in person. Distressing to me because he was away so much, not because we had Boondoggle’s company all that time. The cats had managed to whip him into shape, which I suspected was one of the reasons he liked to be outside. He also liked to herd my aunt’s pet turkey, TediBird, which was fine by me. That Damned Bird and I had been in a state of open warfare since we’d first met. Fortunately she’d have gone to roost for the night in her pen that we’d decked out with the backseat of an old car—her favorite nesting place. Life had definitely improved in that respect. She used to nest in Freya.

  As I mounted the steps I didn’t trip over a single cat. In fact not one of the furry little beasties was anywhere to be seen. It wasn’t because Boondoggle accompanied me up the stairs though. It might be summer but it still gets cold and foggy here and the little monsters would be inside curled up somewhere cozy.

  I opened the door and was greeted by the wonderful aroma of herbs and freshly baked bread. Ah, the comforts of home. From the living room I could hear Cary Grant speaking which meant Charlie and Aunt Gerda were in there watching a movie. I closed the door took off my coat and hung it in the closet. As I looked in, Charlie waved. He couldn’t get up, not without dislodging the three cats lined up along his legs which rested on a footstool. Aunt Gerda though scattered the two who filled her lap and rose to give me a welcoming hug.

  “There you are, dear. Have you eaten?”

  “Not yet. Please tell me there are some leftovers?”

  “Lasagna,” Charlie said cheerfully. “Not ours, we picked some up on the way home.”

  “Why? I mean you were going to stay—”

  “The news, dear,” Aunt Gerda explained. “We picked up a broadcast
after the matinee, all about that man who stole the funds last year being found dead at the fairgrounds. And right when you were trying to launch your event. Has it been complete chaos for you?” Her sympathy wrapped around me, as warm and comforting as a purring cat.

  I trailed her into the kitchen where she brought a huge foil pan from the refrigerator and scooped out a generous portion from the already depleted contents. While I popped it into the microwave to nuke it for a few minutes, she added dressing to the remainder of their salad and placed it into a bowl. The loaf of herb bread I’d put in the machine before I’d left home that morning now sat on the counter, a huge chunk missing but still fragrant in spite of no longer being warm. I cut a small slice then retrieved the lasagna and settled at the table with a glass of wine.

  Almost at once a heavy weight settled on my feet. The Siamese Olaf, judging by the bulk and the fur that now tickled the top of my ankle. A set of fangs were lovingly inserted into my other ankle, announcing the presence of Furface. Ah, the comforts—and sometimes discomforts—of home. I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Except maybe an undisturbed evening with Sarkisian.

  “We checked on Vilhelm, gave him a new seed treat and covered his cage,” Aunt Gerda assured me. She caught the gray and white Dagmar who tried to climb her way into my lap, the better to reach my dinner.

  “Who’s handling the investigation?” Charlie called from the living room.

  “Owen arrived just in the nick of time,” I called back between mouthfuls. I still thought of him as Sarkisian most of the time—some habits are hard to break—but I’d finally adjusted to calling him by his first name.

  Charlie’s contagious chuckle sounded. “Lucky him.”

  They both asked a lot of questions and I answered as best I could but really not much had emerged yet. I hoped Sarkisian was making progress. He had to return to school after the holiday and I wanted to spend at least a few minutes with him when he wasn’t immersed in an investigation. Hell, I wanted to spend a few minutes with him when I wasn’t immersed in an event.